


Polish Prayers

by DestielHisEyesOpened (Icarus3)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (most of the characters), Biting, Bobby Singer in a Wheelchair, But really my goal was something that people of any or no religion could enjoy, Case Fic, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Content warnings in first chapter's end notes, DCBB, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2018, English as a second language, Frottage, Guaranteed to piss off uptight Christians and uptight atheists alike!, Hickies, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monasticism, Multimedia, NOT a conversion fic! (ew ew ew kill it with fire!), No really it's the slowest, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Progressive Christian theology, Queer liberation theology, Russian Castiel, Sacrilege, Shenanigans in a church, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Unorthodox use of an orthodox prayer rope, Virgin Castiel, bed sharing, everything in between, piety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-29 06:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 123,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16738996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus3/pseuds/DestielHisEyesOpened
Summary: In July 2004, Sam is taking summer classes at Stanford and Dean is hunting alone. Then John makes Dean take a case at a monastery in the idyllic French countryside, where one of his old hunting buddies is now a monk. Dean’s cover story is that he’s one of the volunteers who manage the many visitors who come throughout the year.Dean and Brother Bobby work the case, trying to figure out what kind of monster has been attacking people and what to do about it. In the meantime, Dean meets other volunteers from all over the world: Charlie from Germany, Victor from Portugal, Kevin from China… But it’s Castiel, the Russian accordion player, who really catches Dean’s eye – and stirs up feelings he’s been denying for years.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my DeanCas Big Bang 2018 fic! This has been over three years in the making, and I can't believe it's finally complete! Your interest means the world to me!
> 
> **Art:** Be sure to check out [TheDogsled's amazing art](https://thedogsled.tumblr.com/post/180538968368/an-art-masterpost-for-polish-prayers-by) for this fic. She has been such a joy to work with, and I am beyond thrilled with how it all turned out!
> 
> **Tumblr:** Feel free to visit or message me on tumblr at [destielhiseyesopened](http://destielhiseyesopened.tumblr.com)
> 
> **Mouse-over text:** This fic has non-English languages scattered throughout, with mouse-over translations much of the time. To see the translations, you need to enable creator styles. If you see this text, click the "Show Creator's Style" button at the top of the page.
> 
> **Ebooks:** AO3 ebooks don’t include mouse-over text or chapter end notes, so I've made my own: [epub](https://www.dropbox.com/s/zub1wyw1dqseb5i/Polish%20Prayers%20-%20DestielHisEyesOpened.epub?dl=0), [mobi](https://www.dropbox.com/s/erwgxvr4s2ery4b/Polish%20Prayers%20-%20DestielHisEyesOpened.mobi?dl=0), [pdf](https://www.dropbox.com/s/d3kywt9hs5ukr2i/Polish%20Prayers%20-%20DestielHisEyesOpened.pdf?dl=0)
> 
> **Acknowledgments:** OMG, so many people to thank! First and foremost, my alpha, my beta, my dear friend, thank you so much to Aleks for his endless help and encouragement over the months! I can't possibly list every way he helped along the way, but suffice to say, this fic would not exist without him! And thank you to Sophie, a beloved friend I met at the real-world “Community of St. Charles” back in 2015. Thanks for help with languages, and assorted details from the real-world Community that I'd forgotten, and of course your constant support. Thank you a million times to Dogsled, the artist for this fic, who in addition to providing her fantastic art, also provided some invaluable feedback on the fic itself. And finally, thank you to Jojo and Muse for all the work they put into making the DCBB happen in the first place, and to all the wonderful people in the DCBB Discord chat who provided so much help and amusement along the way.
> 
> Wait, I lied. I have more people to thank. Thanks to my fact checkers, just-another-busy-fangirl, Will, Reader John, azulora, and Dori. And finally, thanks to my sensitivity readers, jupiterjames, Gamermom, littlesistercharlie, Moadlc, and fromkansaswithlovesstuff. (Any remaining problems are, again, entirely on me.) And thanks to Aleeliah and Adaille for consultations.
> 
> **Request:** The Community of St. Charles is based very, very heavily on a real place. I've changed most names, and tweaked stuff here and there for plot reasons, but it's still damn near identical. If you visit the links that in the author's notes for some chapters, you'll learn the name of the real place. I ask, however, that you don't mention this fic anywhere related to the real place, and don't mention the name of the real place anywhere related to the fic. As hilarious as it would be for people looking for the real place to accidentally stumble across gay porn, it would be hella awkward if anyone found the character who were partially based on them (especially “Cas” omg can you even imagine??). I would be more than happy, however, to talk about the real place in private messages, if you want to know more!
> 
> **Fun fact:** Nearly everything in this fic – if it's not directly related to the hunting plot, or the romance plot, but occasionally even then – is based on actual events that happened when I spent six weeks at the real “Community of St. Charles” as an “auxiliaire”
> 
> Without further ado, may I present Polish Prayers!

“Oh hell no. No way. Not a chance. I am not going to friggin' France! Not happening!” Dean blurted into his flip-phone. Just how off his rocker was his old man, sending him to work a case on a completely different continent? Making him _fly_ to another continent? John knew plenty of other hunters – surely there was someone else he could send. Hell, it was summer, classes were out, he could send– no, of course he wouldn't call up Sam. The two of them weren't exactly on speaking terms, ever since Sam had left for Stanford and John more or less disowned him. Still though, there had to be someone else. “Send another hunter,” he said into the phone. “Because I'm not going and that's final.”

There was a knock at the motel room door. “Give me a minute,” Dean told his dad, glad to have a distraction from the current conversation. He tossed the phone onto the bed and walked over to open the door. On the other side stood a woman in a blue uniform with a delivery company logo embroidered on one side of her jacket, and the name “Gail” on the other. In her hands, she held a cardboard box.

“Package for Roger Waters,” Gail said. “Is that you?”

Dean paused. He wasn't expecting any deliveries.

“Sign here please,” Gail replied, not waiting for an answer before placing a clipboard and pen on top of the box. The return address said “Syd Barrett.” God dammit, Dean had known that something was up – he just hadn't known what – when John (sorry, “Syd”) had asked him where he was staying, and wasn't satisfied with just “Cincinnati. I'm tracking a couple of vamps across Ohio.” Well, there was only one way to find out what the mystery package contained. Dean scribbled on the line, accepted the package from Gail, and shut the door.

Dean put the box on the bed. He pulled a knife out of the bag of weapons on the nightstand, and slit the tape. Inside there was a convincing-looking passport for one “Dean Waters,” a stack of Euros, some written instructions, and (fuck) airplane tickets.

Dean picked the phone back up, and right away John said, “Sounds like the package arrived. Perfect timing. You're going, and _that's_ final.” God fucking dammit. If John already went through the trouble of getting the necessary documents, he really wasn't going to take no for an answer. “You'd best get your stuff packed. You have an early flight tomorrow. It's international – leave extra time.” The line went dead. The rat-bastard didn't even have the decency to say a proper goodbye before sending him off in a flying metal death machine. That figures.

Dean was well-versed in the art of packing his bags at a moment's notice, but he'd never had to think in terms of checked luggage versus carry-on before. He quickly realized that he'd have to leave the vast majority of his arsenal behind. He couldn't bring any guns on an airplane, of course, and could only fit a few of his smaller blades into the bag he planned to check. At least he didn't have to bother lugging any salt or holy water along with him – those would be easy enough to obtain after he arrived. Still, Dean was uneasy with the idea of going on a hunt so under-prepared. John hadn't even told him what to expect – all he said was that an old friend had called him up about a case, he was going off to some monastery in rural friggin' France, and be prepared to stay a while. So now he was stuck preparing to spend god knows how long in a foreign country, without TV, or sex, or even Baby to keep him sane.

Dean left Cincinnati around three in the afternoon and made good time to Chicago, arriving just after eight. He checked himself into a motel near the O'Hare International Airport, then found a diner to grab a bite to eat. He wondered, do they even have cheeseburgers in France? They must at least have cows, and what's the point of having cows if you don't turn them into delicious, juicy cheeseburgers? What about bacon, though? Would there be bacon? Aw man, what if the monks at the monastery swore off meat and he ended up having to eat steamed vegetables with brown rice the whole time he was there? The more Dean thought about the trip that lay ahead of him, the more reasons he found to dread it.

Dean was up with the sun the next morning, after a night of fitful sleep. He was pretty sure he'd dreamt about hunting a giant silver flying monster, but couldn't remember any of the details. He got dressed and drove Baby to the airport's long-term parking area. Dean promised Baby that he wasn't leaving her forever, and gave her a couple pats on the trunk before making his way over to the airport shuttle.

Even at 6:30am, there was a surprisingly large crowd of people milling about the terminal. Dean waited impatiently in line to check in and check his suitcase, and then in another line to go through security. He mentally went through the things he'd packed in his carry-on, paranoid that he'd left some sort of contraband in there, but finally made it through without incident. He grabbed a donut and a cup of coffee (his stomach was too tied up in knots to have anything heartier) and sat down to wait by his flight's gate. By the time he finished his breakfast, though, he couldn't just sit and wait anymore – every minute until boarding felt like a minute closer to his own doom. So he went into the first shop he saw and mindlessly browsed through the magazines, paperback novels, and souvenir tchotchkes.

Finally, Dean heard the dreaded words over the loudspeaker: “Aer Lingus flight 1138 with non-stop service to Dublin is now boarding at Gate Five.” That's right, Dean remembered – he had a layover in Dublin, and had to go through this torment twice before arriving in France. Dean made his way back to the gate. His heart started to race and his knees felt weak as he stood in yet another damned line. He had one last hope – that there would be some problem with the boarding pass and he wouldn't be allowed on – but no such luck.

Dean could swear that the stewardess gave him a side-eye when he purchased a little bottle of whiskey the first time the drinks cart came around, just because it was before 10am. And she cut him off (“sorry sir, it's company policy”) after his third. There went his planned coping strategy. He pulled out one of the Kurt Vonnegut paperbacks he'd packed in his carry-on, but after a dozen pages or so he realized that he had absolutely no clue what he'd just read, or even which book he was holding. So instead, he took out his walkman and tried to calm himself by listening to some Metallica. “Creeping Death” turned out to be a bit ominous for the circumstances, so he switched to “Whiskey in the Jar.” It seemed more than appropriate for his interim destination.

Somehow, he managed to white-knuckle his way through the remaining hours of the flight, until the plane landed safely in Dublin. By the time he made it through customs, got the address of a cheap nearby hotel, caught a cab over, and checked in for the night, it was 9:30pm local time. Even though it was only 4:30pm back in Chicago, the harrowing day had left Dean nearly ready to call it a night. The one thing he had to do beforehand was visit a pub. Firstly, because he'd be damned if he was going to spend a night in Ireland without doing so. And secondly, because he really, really needed a drink or three. He ended up at a pub called The George, where he proceeded to pound back pints of Guinness until the warm, fuzzy feeling of drunkenness washed away his lingering anxiety from the day's travels.

The next day's flight from Dublin, Ireland to Lyon, France was decidedly easier for Dean to endure. Partially, because he'd steeled himself with a hearty full Irish breakfast of bacon rashers, sausage, a fried egg, black pudding, white pudding, hash browns, fried tomatoes, sauteed mushrooms, fried bread with butter, and coffee. Skipping supper the night before had left him ravenous, yet he still barely finished it all.

More importantly, though, the second flight was much shorter. He'd never have thought to call a two and a half hour flight “short,” but after the previous day's flight of over seven hours, two and a half seemed far more doable.

Also, he'd stocked up on Irish whiskey at the airport terminal's duty-free shop. One bottle for the flight, and one more for later. The spirit did wonders for making the flight more tolerable.

After arriving in Lyon, Dean was ready for the journey to be over but there was still a ways to go. He made his way to the train station and, between the counter attendant's broken English and showing her the part of John's instructions that had the name of the town he was trying to get to, he managed to procure a ticket. After an hour on the train, and then another forty-five minutes by bus, Dean finally arrived at a big wooden archway bearing a sign that read “Bienvenue dans la Communauté de Saint Charles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Fun facts:
>     * Starting the fic in Cincinnati is a small homage to Destielcon, which was held in Cincinnati 2014-2016. I went and had a blast twice – I missed the 2015 con, because I was at the real-world “Community of St. Charles” having the experiences which inspired this fic!
>     * Did you catch the Star Wars reference? Flight number 1138?
>     * The George is the oldest gay bar in Ireland. Dean did not know that when he we went there, ahahaha. Hmm, could this be foreshadowing of some sort? ;-P I kinda wanted to send Dean to the other gay bar in Dublin, Panti Bar, but my killjoy beta said that would be a bit too on-the-nose (I kid, I kid, love ya Aleks!)
>   * Photos:
>     * [Full Irish Breakfast](https://mishas-meat-pen.tumblr.com/post/131319352432/irish-breakfast-with-extra-bacon-instead-of-black) om nom nom
>   * **WARNINGS!** This fic contains:
>     * Dean working through some mild internalized homophobia (Chapters 16, 21, & 34)
>     * Brief allusion to past marijuana use (Chapter 18)
>     * References to Dean/Others (Chapters 16, 19, 26, & 29)
>     * Brief mention of suicide and other consequences of homophobia (Chapter 19)
>     * Brief references, in a historical context, to sexual abuse of children and enslaved people (Chapter 19)
>     * Relatively mild religious homophobia (Chapter 23)
>     * Another brief allusion to suicide – the "freedom is a length of rope" line from episode 6x20 (Chapter 26)
>     * Bloody wounds, brief eye-related gore (Chapter 35)
> 



	2. Arriving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Just a reminder, in case you didn't read all the notes at the beginning of Chapter One: St. Chuck's is based on a real place, you'll learn its name if you follow the links I provide, but please don't mention the name of the real place anywhere related to Polish Prayers, or Polish Prayers anywhere related to the real place. Thanks!
>   * Pronunciations:
>     * Enjoy trying to pronounce all those building names, ahahaha! No, I'm kidding, here's how to pronounce them:
>       * [Māja (MAH-yah)](https://translate.google.com/#lv/en/m%C4%81ja)
>       * [Kuća (KOO-cha)](https://translate.google.com/#bs/en/ku%C4%87a)
>       * [Hoeseog (hey-saw)](https://translate.google.com/#ko/en/%ED%9A%8C%EC%84%9D)
>   * Photos:
>     * [Kuća](https://mw2.google.com/mw-panoramio/photos/medium/116676.jpg)
>     * [Māja](https://mw2.google.com/mw-panoramio/photos/medium/1941956.jpg)
>     * [Bell tower](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bxzuispe7jY) (actually a video, deal with it)
>   * To keep track of the various buildings, [here's a handy-dandy map!](https://i.imgur.com/wcHgB0e.jpg)
> 


Dean paused on the road, a little ways before the arch. His dad's instructions didn't cover this part – they only said which brother he was supposed to meet up with. As if Dean would instinctively know where to find him, or even what he looked like. Dean slowly walked forward, for lack of anything else to do, looking around as he went. It didn't look much like a monastery to him. He'd expected a claustrophobic enclosure with towering walls. Instead, he stepped into a relatively open space, dotted with structures. To his left was a small parking lot full of busses, and beyond that a building of some sort. To his right were a couple of long canopy tents, under which people had apparently left their suitcases unattended. Dean unconsciously tightened his grip on his own suitcase. No way was he letting it out of his sight, no matter what those trusting fools did. After the tents but before the archway (which Dean could now see had five large bells on top), stood a squat white building with a red tile roof. And beyond that, there stood a yellow two-story building with a similar roof.

The white building seemed like the closest and most obvious place to check out first, so Dean headed in that direction. As he got closer and went around to the side of the building to find the door, he found a large sign which validated his hunch. “Welcome,” it read in large orange letters, accompanied by what Dean presumed was “Welcome” in several other languages, written in equally large and brightly colored print. He went inside and saw one large room. There was a counter to his right, behind which stood a young man dressed neatly in a button-down shirt and khaki pants, and a young woman in a t-shirt and overalls. In the corner to his left he saw a table surrounded by benches, and another, similar table was positioned by the far wall. Each table had another one or two young people who appeared to be manning it (outfitted as they were with clipboards and pens), and several other people were milling around the room or sitting at the tables.

“Can I help you?” asked the young woman at the counter, with a heavy French accent.

“Um, yeah,” said Dean, approaching her. “I'm supposed to meet up with a Bobby Singer.”

The woman blinked at him. “Is he a visitor? Do you know if he has arrived yet?” she asked.

“No, he's–” Dean started. “Oh right, I guess you'd call him Brother Robert.”

“Ah,” she said with a new air of understanding. “One moment please, I will see if he is available.” She turned away to pick up the phone behind the counter, and dialed. After a moment she began speaking in rapid French. The only words Dean could pick out were “Frère Robert” and “visiteur.” Then she hung up and turned back to face Dean. “Frère Christophe says that you are expected. You are to get your accommodations, and then go to Māja to meet with Frère Robert.”

Now it was Dean's turn to blink confusedly. “Ah, come, I will show you,” said the woman. She came out from behind the counter and went to open the door Dean had entered through. “That is Māja,” she said, pointing to the nearby yellow building. “And this is Kuća,” she added, gesturing around the room they were in. Then she went over to the table in the corner, which happened to be vacant at the moment save for the guy working it, and beckoned Dean to follow. She picked a folded piece of paper from a bookshelf by the table, from the stack labeled “English,” and laid it out to show a map of the monastery grounds. She pointed to the buildings labeled “Kuća” and “Māja” at the bottom of the page, right near the bell tower Dean had seen outside. The rest of the grounds stretched out above, with a large, vaguely cross-shaped church building labeled “Église” at the approximate center of the map, and what appeared to be a wooded area labeled “La Cascade” near the top. Dean wasn't entirely sure of the map's scale, but from what he could tell, the area laid out for visitors to set up camp was massive. Just how many visitors did this place get?

“Sander will give you your accommodations,” she said, gesturing to the young man sitting at the table. “Sander,” she continued, “Frère Christophe says that he already has a work assignment, and his contribution has been taken care of.” Dean must have looked confused, because Sander quickly explained (in what sounded like some sort of Scandinavian accent), “The contribution is the small fee we ask for, just to cover your food and other assorted expenses for the week. But yours is already covered, so you owe nothing.”

Not bad, thought Dean. He wasn't about to complain about getting free food for an entire week. The woman from the counter returned to her post, and Sander gestured for Dean to sit down. He positioned his suitcase against the wall, and took a seat.

“Now, did you bring your own accommodations?” Sander asked. “A tent, or a caravan?”

Dean shook his head. “All I have with me is in that suitcase and this backpack,” he said, suddenly worried that he was supposed to have brought more.

But Sander took it in stride. “Would you prefer to stay in a tent or a barrack?” he asked.

Dean paused to think for a moment. On one hand, a barrack sounded more comfortable. But on the other hand, it also sounded like it would be crowded with other people, and the last thing he needed was someone else catching an eyeful of the collection of blades he had stuffed into his suitcase. A pocket knife could be passed off as a normal, non-threatening civilian item. A Bowie knife and a push dagger, not so much. “I'll take a tent,” Dean answered.

Sander made a few marks on his clipboard, then fished a key attached to a bulky wooden keychain out of a box under the table, and handed it over to Dean. “You're in tent number nineteen, in this area here,” he said, drawing a circle on Dean's map to show him where to go, “and the nearest toilets are here,” he continued, pointing. “You'll take your meals here,” he said pointing to a structure near the bell tower. “And you are how old?” Sander asked. Dean's suspicious instincts immediately wondered why he was asking, but it seemed like a harmless enough question.

“Twenty-five,” Dean answered truthfully.

“Your morning Bible study will be at Meeting Place P with the twenty-five to thirty-five group, then,” Sander said as he drew another circle on the map. “The front of your welcome guide has your daily schedule,” he continued, folding the map back in half to show the text on the other side. Dean didn't bother to tell Sander that he had no intention of going to the Bible studies or the morning, midday, and evening prayers that punctuated each day. He was there to work a case, not to get his religion on.

Sander scribbled a few letters and numbers on a small piece of paper, and handed that to Dean too. “If you go over there now,” Sander said, pointing to the other table near the room's far wall, “Giulia and Tatjana will give you your meal ticket.”

Dean grabbed his suitcase and headed over. He was starting to understand why so many visitors left their bags outside while taking care of this stuff. Carrying it around the room wasn't difficult, but after a long day of traveling it was awfully annoying.

There were a few other visitors who were waiting before him, but the line moved quickly enough. Dean had a seat at Giulia and Tatjana's table, and held out the slip of paper he'd received from Sander. One of them (he wasn't sure which was which) took it, studied it for a moment, and apparently got some kind of sense from the code written on it because she decisively plucked a small, light green piece of card stock out of the box in front of her. The box held similar pieces of card stock in a few different colors, all piled in neat little stacks. She handed the card to Dean and Sander's note to the other young woman at the table, who made an entry on what looked like some sort of ledger page on her clipboard.

“Don't lose that ticket,” one of the women said (Italian accent – must be Giulia). “You will need it for every meal except breakfast. Write your name and country on it as soon as you can.” With no further instructions, Dean figured that he was done in Kuća and it was time to go find his tent. He got up, put his meal ticket and tent key in his pocket, and headed out the door.

Once outside, he took out the map again and took a moment to get himself oriented, then started walking toward his tent. He passed by several structures, including a couple of pavilions, a couple of large canopy tents, and an odd building, labeled “Hoeseog” on the map, comprised of five rooms in a row, each with its own door to the outside (almost like a tiny motel, Dean mused). Between the doors, beneath a roof overhang, there stood several benches. Large stone planters holding decorative plants dotted the space between the building and the main path. Dean passed by the church, with its vertical wood slat walls and roof dotted with simple grey onion domes. When he passed by “La Boutique” (whatever that was), he turned and crossed the street that ran through the length of the monastic grounds. The first tents he saw were huge, dark grey things, capable of housing at least a dozen people each. Crap, Dean thought. He'd traded comfort for privacy, and now he wasn't even going to get that. As he kept walking toward the spot Sander had circled on his map, though, he passed a small building labeled “Caerwys” and the massive tents gave way to small orange ones with blue rainfly, in the traditional, triangular tent shape. They looked capable of fitting no more than two people. He located number nineteen, right beside a tree, and unlocked the small padlock that was keeping the front zippers together.

Inside the tent, there was a twin-sized mattress covered in a light blue fitted sheet. Dean stopped short. He hadn't even thought about what he was going to sleep on. He was so used to motel rooms that the idea of bringing a sleeping bag hadn't crossed his mind. It was damn lucky that, as it turned out, he wouldn't need one. Except then Dean realized that there was no pillow or blanket. Well shit. He'd have to ask Brother Robert about that, cause otherwise he was in for a rather uncomfortable week.

Dean stashed his suitcase and backpack in his tent and locked it back up before heading back the way he came. He walked into Māja and looked around. Unlike Kuća, this building clearly had other rooms. The back right corner of the front room turned into a hallway, trailing off out of sight. To his left was a big table surrounded by six stools and covered in various newspapers. Beyond it stood a large bookshelf like the one in Kuća, filled with stacks of papers labeled by language. To his right was a wall with a large map of the world on it, and a waist-high piece of furniture made up of small cubbies which appeared to be used as mail boxes. Past the map and the cubbies, a young man stood at a small wooden podium.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Um, yeah,” Dean replied. “I'm supposed to meet up with Bobb– Brother Robert. Do you know where he is?”

“I'll check,” the man said, picking up the phone. He made a few inquiries before hanging up and turning back to Dean. “Brother Robert is on his way. You can have a seat at the table to wait.”

Dean was absentmindedly thumbing through a newspaper when he heard a voice saying “Dean? Where are ya, boy?” Dean looked up to see a sturdy-looking man in a wheelchair with a full beard, receding hairline, and a plaid shirt worn with khaki pants and fisherman sandals.

“That would be me,” Dean said, standing up and walking over to greet Brother Robert. He extended his hand, but to his surprise he was pulled down into a big bear hug.

“Ha ha, look at you! I haven't seen you in near on twenty years! I dare say you've grown a bit in that time!” Dean was too stunned to know what to do with his arms, but managed to give a slight hug back before he was released. “I reckon you don't even remember me,” said Brother Robert. “We only met a handful of times before I up and moved to a whole 'nother continent. Always wondered how you and your brother turned out, though. I see you followed in your daddy's footsteps. How about Sammy, what's he up to these days?”

“Um, he's good,” Dean said as his mind reeled from this new information. “He's in college now. Just finished his Junior year. He's taking summer classes right now, like the over-achiever he is.”

“Ah, he always was a precocious little tyke. I knew he'd grow up smart!” said Brother Robert. “Anyway, we should probably go talk about your special job assignment.” He gave Dean a knowing look as he said “special job assignment.” He started toward the hallway on the right, and beckoned for Dean to follow. They passed a couple of spacious rooms which were mostly empty save for benches and chairs, then several small rooms, all with large windows so it was possible to see inside. Each small room had a table surrounded by a few chairs. A couple had people in them, but most were empty. They rounded a corner and passed even more of these small rooms – Dean estimated they'd passed eight to ten in total. Just as he was starting to wonder how many rooms they had, the hallway ended in one last room, slightly bigger than the others, with a half dozen chairs around the table in the center. This was the door Brother Robert opened.

“Sorry for the hike,” he said, closing the door behind them. “Wanted to be sure we'd have as much privacy as possible, given the subject matter.” They both sat at the table.

“So, uh, Brother Robert, what kind of spook are we dealing with here?”

“First off,” Brother Robert replied, “don't call me 'Brother Robert.' 'Bobby' will do just fine. Never did care for the formality of the title. And what we're dealing with, well, that's one of the things we'll have to figure out. All we know so far is that for the past couple of months or so, visitors to the community have been reporting terrible, violent nightmares. About one per week. Some have woken their roommates with screaming, and the roommates got so shaken up they convinced the victim to take a late night trip to the infirmary. Others were so disturbed by the dreams that they sought out brothers to talk to about it. After enough of these incidents, my old hunter senses started tingling. There's definitely something unnatural about all of this.”

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” Dean cut in. “I hauled my ass all the way across an ocean because of a few bad dreams?”

“Bad dreams, for now. My bigger concern is that whatever critter is causing this, it might escalate. We have a very important week coming up in about a month and a half, when lots of important people will be visiting to celebrate the community's triple anniversary – this year marks our founder, Brother Raoul's, 100th birthday, the 10th anniversary of his death, and the 75th anniversary of when he started the community. Whatever's going on, it could be leading up to that. And we really don't want to take that risk.”

“So where do I fit into all this? I mean, you said you're a hunter. And you're a monk, you must have connections to exorcists or whatever who could help you out.”

Bobby chuckled. “Most churchy-type exorcists, I hate to say it, are useless. Filled with all sorts of superstitious nonsense, instead of reliable lore. They've got nothing on hunters. And as for me, I may have decades of hunting experience, but I'm not so good with the grunt work these days,” he said. “Plus, I need someone who can investigate without sticking out. You may have noticed, but not many of the visitors here are my age. We try to keep this a youth-friendly space, so there are restrictions on how many folks over thirty-five are allowed at any one time. The vast majority of our visitors are in their teens and twenties, so I need someone young to work the case.”

“So I just live in a tent until we gank this thing?”

“Nah, that's just for the first week. Your real cover story is that you're an auxiliaire. If this case takes longer than a week, you'll move into one of their houses. They always start with a field week, though, so it'd be suspicious if you didn't.” Dean was puzzled, but Bobby continued. “'Auxiliaire' is what we call the young folks who help us run the visitor community. It's not easy to host two, three thousand visitors a week.” Dean gaped at him. No wonder there were so many tents. “That's during the summer, of course. Fewer in the winter. Visitors do their fair share of work too. Everyone who can work, does. All the cooking, cleaning, what have you for the visitor community is done by the visitor community. But there need to be people in charge to organize them and keep everything running smoothly, so that's where the auxiliaires come in. Couldn't run this place without 'em. So, young folks who want to stay longer than a week or two earn their keep as auxiliaires. And boys thinking about becoming brothers, they spend a year as an auxiliaire first.”

“So I'm gonna live with a bunch of wannabe monks and hunt down a nightmare monster,” Dean summarized.

“More or less! Think you're up for it?”


	3. Settling In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Pronunciations:
>     * The new buildings in this chapter are pronounced just as they look:
>       * [Nyumba](https://translate.google.com/#auto/en/nyumba) (NYOOM-ba)
>       * [Alfena](https://translate.google.com/#pt/en/Alfena) (ahl-fay-nah)
>   * Photos:
>     * [Kohvik](https://mw2.google.com/mw-panoramio/photos/medium/1942152.jpg)
>     * [Covered patio](http://taize742015.e-monsite.com/medias/album/2015-taize-ambiance-11.jpg) ([Detail](http://taize742015.e-monsite.com/medias/album/2015-taize-ambiance-10.jpg))
> 


Dean mulled over the task before him as he walked back to his tent. The hunt itself sounded normal enough – a little boring, even – but this was definitely the strangest cover story he'd ever had. He made it all the way back before he realized that he'd forgotten to ask Bobby about getting a blanket and pillow. Damn.

A red-headed young woman was kneeling in front of the tent on the other side of the tree from Dean's, fiddling with something inside. She saw Dean walk up to his tent and stood up, dusting herself off and straightening her Batwoman t-shirt. “Hello neighbor!” she said. “Where are you from? I'm from Germany, near Köln. I'm Charlie, by the way. What's your name?”

“I'm Dean. From America.” His cover story wouldn't be compromised by the truth, and it was always easier to stick to the truth whenever possible. Fewer lies to remember that way. Plus, he doubted he could pass himself off as anything _but_ American.

“Oh wow, you hardly ever meet anyone from America here! Probably cause it's such a long trip. How long did it take you to get here, anyway? It takes me about eight hours. Sorry, I tend to babble,” she concluded.

“Uh, about two days? Though that was with an overnight layover in Ireland, so I guess less than that if you only count the actual traveling time.” Christ, her babbling was contagious. Fuck, he was taking the lord's name in vain at a monastery, of all places. “Say, do you know if there's somewhere to get a blanket around here?” he added.

“Oh sure, in the blanket barrack! Is this your first time at St. Chuck's? C'mon, I'll show you.” She started walking back toward the road.

Shit, auxiliaires probably weren't first-timers. If he was going to successfully stick to the cover story, he should get used to it now. “Nah, I came a couple of summers ago. Brought a sleeping bag back then, but I decided to travel light this time. I vaguely remembered something about a blanket barrack though, so I figured it would work out.” There, that was a good save. Charlie seemed satisfied.

“Here we are,” Charlie said. “Right next to Nyumba.” She opened the door to reveal a room jam-packed with shelving units, which were in turn jam packed with sheets and blankets. An attendant (probably an auxiliaire, based on Bobby's explanation) was tossing bundles of sheets into a giant canvas bag held open by a metal frame up against the wall. “Hello! Can we have a blanket and a pillow, please?” The auxiliaire waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the blanket shelves, and kept tossing bundled sheets. Charlie trotted over and grabbed a blanket, then disappeared behind some of the shelves and returned with a pillow. “What about a towel?” she asked. “The most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have!”

“Yeah, actually, I could use one of those too.” Just another side effect of growing up in motels – he'd forgotten that clean towels didn't just magically appear in the bathroom. He was suddenly glad he'd learned that tiny motel soap bars aren't enough to scrub off a mess of monster guts, and always to bring his own, cause he doubted he could have gotten a bar of soap from the blanket barrack.

“Do you know where your towel is?” Dean asked after a moment, to show that he'd gotten Charlie's Douglas Adams reference.

She grinned. “A hoopy frood like me? Always!”

Charlie grabbed a towel from a shelf behind the auxiliaire, and shoved the blanket, pillow, and towel into Dean's arms. “Just be sure to return them here before you leave,” the auxiliaire said.

On the way back, Charlie stopped at a small enclosure which smelled suspiciously like garbage. She went in, and Dean saw her bending over to reach into a large, waist-high wooden crate. She stood back up with a triumphant grin on her face, and two flattened cardboard boxes in her hands. Dean wasn't sure what she was up to, rummaging around in the recycling bin like that, but he figured he'd just go along with it lest he accidentally reveal his ignorance of some weird St. Chuck's tradition. When they got back to their tents, Charlie placed one piece of flattened cardboard right in front of each tent's front door. “This way, if it rains overnight, you don't step out of your tent and right into a patch of mud,” she finally explained.

Dean opened up his tent and dumped the linens onto the mattress. He checked his watch. There were still two hours until supper, and he wasn't sure what to do with the time. He should probably look over the welcome guide pamphlet he'd received at Kuća, so he could better fake his way through being a repeat visitor, but doing that in front of Charlie probably wasn't the best idea. He was supposed to already know that stuff, after all. Luckily, she had a better idea. “Hey, wanna go to Kohvik? I missed tea, so I'm dying for a soda.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “I could go for a soda. Kohvik sounds good.” He had no idea what “Kohvik” was. On the way there, he tried his best to stay more or less beside her so it wasn't too obvious that he was following her lead. They went back down the street, past La Boutique and the church, almost all the way back to the bell tower (where new visitors were still trickling in, suitcases in hand) before turning into the bus parking lot. Ah, Kohvik must be the building he saw when he first arrived, just behind the lot.

In front of Kohvik, there were a handful of standing-height tables. The front of the building was a covered porch with three concession windows on the front wall, but their shutters were all down right now. A sign on the wall listed the hours of operation. Dean didn't get a good look before Charlie led him around to the left side of the building, but it looked like the place was open in several short, thirty or forty-five minute bursts throughout the day. It struck Dean as odd, but then again, having a concessions stand at a monastery was pretty damn odd in and of itself. Standing against the side of the building were several soda vending machines. Dean fished some euro coins out of his pocket and sorted through them to see what he had. Charlie, meanwhile, inserted a coin into one of the machines, pressed a button, and fished out her can of “Coca-Cola Light.” Dean looked at the machine and was surprised to see that drinks were only one euro. The snacks he'd seen for sale at the airport and train station had been damn expensive, and he'd figured that was just how things were in France. “Lowest price I've seen anywhere,” Dean commented.

Charlie took a sip of her soda. “They barely break even. That's more or less the point of Kohvik. Outside vendors can't compete with the prices, so it prevents them from setting up carts just outside the entrance and ruining the monastic atmosphere.” Dean considered. It was pretty clever, actually. A rotating thousands-strong crowd of teens and twenty-somethings must be a pretty tempting target, after all.

Dean purchased a can of Orange Fanta and they started wandering back in the direction of the bell tower, where other visitors were milling about. Charlie entered a covered patio area just past the tower and to the left, before Hoeseog. It was like a large, tile-floored room, with a roof and three walls but no fourth wall on the side facing the path from the bell tower. Inside the patio, there were long benches arranged in triangles. There were also two vertical metal pipes coming out of the floor, about four feet high, with four water spigots attached to each and drainage grates on the ground below them instead of tile. Dean saw a couple of people filling up water bottles, which seemed like a good idea in the summer heat. Charlie took a seat on one of the benches, and Dean followed suit.

It was a good spot for people-watching. Most visitors passed by on their way from Kuća to wherever their accommodations were. One woman who walked by was South Asian, judging by her flowing purple and turquoise sari.

“Do you think she knows her midriff is showing?” Dean said to Charlie in a low voice, nodding at the swath of exposed skin on the woman's side.

Charlie giggled. “That's normal in her culture, silly!” Dean momentarily ducked his head in embarrassment, but quickly resumed people-watching.

“What's up with Goth Bellbottoms over there?” he asked, pointing to a young white man wearing a white shirt with black flared pants, a black tie, black vest, black coat, and black hat, and carrying a walking stick made from a twisted tree branch. It might have been a trick of the light and shadow that the man's hat cast across his face, but Dean was pretty sure he had a unibrow.

“Oh, he's a Wandergeselle – a German tradesman, probably a carpenter, who's finished his apprenticeship and is traveling around looking for work to gain experience. It used to be that all tradesmen did it, but it's actually pretty rare these days. He's the first one I've ever seen in person. The outfit is traditional – it lets people know that he's on the Walz.”

A little while later, a black man and woman in brightly colored robes and matching headwear passed by. They were accompanied by a young girl skipping alongside, and an even younger child perched on the mother's hip. “They look awfully young to be here,” Dean quipped.

“Kids come to St. Chuck's all the time,” Charlie countered. “You just don't see them around much, because families spend most of their time half a kilometer up the road at Alfena and only come down here for prayers.”

Great, another strange location name to remember. Dean was pretty sure that one wasn't even on the welcome guide map. He was starting to doubt that one week would be enough time to get his bearings and convince the auxiliaires that he really was one of them.

Charlie sighed happily. “It's so nice to be back. It feels almost like coming home, you know?”

“Yeah, I've really missed this place,” Dean bluffed.

“I'm staying for two months this time,” she went on. “I was an auxiliaire for one month last summer, and it was great. I'm really excited to stay for longer this time!”

“No kidding?” said Dean. “I'm gonna be an auxiliaire too. First time, for me.” He figured it was safe to admit that he'd never been an auxiliaire before.

“Wow, what a coincidence!” Charlie exclaimed. “You're going to love it, I promise. For one thing, you get to eat with a fork.” She giggled at her own joke. At least, Dean hoped it was a joke.

It wasn't a joke. When supper time rolled around, and Dean got to the front of the food line (more of a mass than a line, really, that somehow shaped itself into five lines toward the front), the “Sunday supper” box on his meal ticket was crossed off and he was handed a tray, a plate, a small bowl, and a large spoon. No forks to be seen anywhere. As he progressed down the line, he was given a scoop of pasta salad, a couple slices of baguette, a peach, a pot of yogurt, and a packet of cookies. At the very end of the line, people were filling their small bowls with water from a cooler. Then they dispersed from the food distribution pavilion to sit under the bell tower, in the covered patio where Dean and Charlie had been people-watching, or on various benches scattered around the grounds. Dean looked around for a free spot, until Charlie nudged him and jerked her head toward a set of benches under a tree.

Charlie dug in as if it were perfectly normal to eat on a bench outside, with no table, using only a spoon, and drinking from a bowl. Dean did his best to take it in stride and hide how strange he found it all.

“Sunday Salad tastes better with a drizzle of olive oil – that's another perk of being an auxiliaire,” Charlie said in a conspiratorial tone.

“Will we get cheese for our burgers too?” Dean asked with a grin.

“Aw man, cheeseburgers at St. Chuck's – that would be great.”

Dean went mute with horror.

After supper, when the dishes had been brought around the corner to the dish washing area (or “washing-up” as they called it here), the bells on the bell tower suddenly started to ring out. As close to them as Dean was, they were practically deafening. Some of the folks around him put their hands over their ears as they started to walk toward the church. Aha, Dean realized, it must be time for evening prayers. Perfect – while everyone else was off getting their prayer on, he'd sneak off to his tent to finally see if he could glean anything he'd be expected to know from that welcome guide.

Back at his tent, Dean left his boots outside on the cardboard box welcome mat and crawled inside. He sat cross-legged on his mattress and picked up the welcome guide pamphlet he'd left there. The front and back contained printed information, while the center folded out into a map. “Coming to the Community of Saint Charles is an opportunity to seek communion with God through common prayer, singing, personal reflection, and sharing,” the front page began. “Everyone is here to discover or rediscover a meaning for their life and to find a new vitality.” Sounds like loads of fun, Dean snarked to himself. If it was all the same, he was going to pass on any touchy-feely crap. He skimmed a bit further. “…community of brothers from a variety of Christian denominations, dedicated to following Christ in common life and celibacy, in simplicity of life.” Well, that first part was surprising. He'd assumed that the community was Catholic, like every other monastery he'd heard of, not a mixture of different denominations. This place just kept getting stranger.

Below the introductory text was an info box showing the daily schedule of meals, prayers, Bible study meetings, and workshops. Beside it, the second column of text explained that visitors had two options – follow the normal schedule with Bible studies, small discussion groups, and work, or spend the week in silence to focus on personal prayer, Bible reading, and reflection. Dean was glad that he wasn't expected to go undercover with the people living in silence, at least. That sounded more like torture than like an inspirational retreat, but hey, to each their own.

The rest of the front page just recapped info he'd gotten from Sander back in Kuća, or from Bobby in Māja. The back had a column labeled “Practical Information,” which also reiterated things he'd already learned. It went on to say that silence was maintained after evening prayers, except at Kohvik. And that alcohol was not allowed on most of the monastery grounds, but you could buy a glass of wine or beer at Kohvik. Well then, that was a nice little perk that Charlie had neglected to mention.

Valuables could be stored in Māja. La Cascade was a silent area. Brothers were available to talk with after evening prayers. These seemed like factoids a repeat visitor might be expected to know. Daily singing practice was at 2pm. Probably less important to know. Workshops “explore the relationship between faith and life in the areas of work, social questions, art and culture, the search for world peace.” Didn't sound like something up his alley, but at least that explained what the “workshops” mentioned in the schedule were about.

Dean flipped open the pamphlet to the map and reviewed the various buildings' names and locations. He noticed a bit of text off to the side that he'd missed before: “The brothers of the community live solely from their own work, which is sold at La Boutique. They do not accept any donations. The brothers do not accept even family inheritances – the community gives these to the poor.” Sammy would approve of that, Dean thought. He always did prefer honest work over alternate ways of making money. Dean was less scrupulous about how they generated income, but he respected the brothers' choice to avoid entanglements with wealthy benefactors.

There was nothing else particularly interesting in the welcome guide, so Dean set it aside. He went ahead and made the bed, placing the borrowed pillow at the top and spreading the blanket out. On closer inspection, the bed was actually two mattresses stacked on top of each other. The tent looked just barely big enough to fit both of them side-by-side, with a tiny bit of room to spare for a couple of suitcases, so the tent could indeed sleep two people after all. Even with just one person it was far from spacious, but he figured he'd make himself at home as much as possible. He unpacked his bag of toiletries and put it near the door where he could easily grab it on his way out to the bathroom, and put the towel next to it. The flashlight and battery-powered alarm clock went next to the bed. The clothing in his suitcase was mussed from being tossed around on the airplane, train, and bus, so he organized it into neat piles again and smoothed out some of the larger wrinkles that had developed. He hid the small cache of hunting supplies he'd brought under a sweatshirt, just to be safe.

Glancing over at the towel, Dean was struck with a thought. He crawled out of the tent and looked around for a place he could hang the towel up after use, but saw no good possibilities. The tree's branches were too high up, and the top of his tent was littered with enough leaves and other assorted tree debris that it didn't look clean enough. So he ducked back into the tent and grabbed a small ball of clothesline from his suitcase. He'd long ago learned that clothesline was a surprisingly versatile implement. From hanging things up, to mending things, to tying suspects to chairs when real rope wasn't available, he kept finding new uses for it. But it also worked as, well, clothesline. He strung a line of it between the front poles of his tent and the next tent over. Perfect. He was all moved in.

Dean's internal body clock should have still been on Cincinnati time, and telling him that it was the middle of the afternoon. But after two days of traveling, he was exhausted. It wasn't even 9:30pm yet, and the sun was still up, but he was ready to face-plant into his pillow and pass out. So he went back into his tent and did exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Did you figure out my little joke in naming the place “The Community of St. Charles” before Charlie called it “St. Chuck's”? ;-)
>   * Charlie is meant to be Charlie, first and foremost. But some of the assorted details about her are inspired by my dear “St. Chuck's” friend Sophie, who I mentioned in the acknowledgements on Chapter One. Love ya, sweetheart!
>   * The stuff Dean reads in the welcome guide is taken from the real-world “St. Chuck's” welcome guide, btw
> 



	4. Week One, Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Lots of wandering around the grounds in this chapter. [Don't forget about the map](https://i.imgur.com/wcHgB0e.jpg)!
>   * I hope the tour of the grounds over the next few chapters helps create a feeling of being there. If it starts boring you, though, feel free to skim past those parts. I won't be offended, honest!
>   * Songs:
>     * The song Dean hears coming from the church this morning is [“Ad te Jesu Christe”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDkQGB9Cr7s)
>   * Photos:
>     * A few examples of [typical](https://c1.staticflickr.com/4/3015/2760256850_356f43be90_b.jpg) [St. Chuck's](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bd/Taiz%C3%A9_-_przyk%C5%82adowy_posi%C5%82ek_6.JPG) [meals](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/31/Taiz%C3%A9_-_przyk%C5%82adowy_posi%C5%82ek_3.JPG)
>     * [Crowd at food pavilion](https://kigali2012.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/taizc3a9-2004-008.jpg)
>     * La Cascade
>       * [Shrine](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/60/2d/06/602d06f1d70b8b4626ef2ecf64ad3ad4.jpg)
>       * [Bridge](https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/658/22784112681_ff13bf06cf_c.jpg)
>       * [Path](https://farm5.static.flickr.com/4074/4886535740_cdfc072c7e_b.jpg)
>       * [Waterfall](https://static.panoramio.com.storage.googleapis.com/photos/large/2447359.jpg)
>     * [Church silence signs](https://cofebirmingham.contentfiles.net/media/assets/image/Silence.jpg)
>     * [Sunset after evening prayers](https://i.imgur.com/TJgwzOx.jpg)
> 


Dean awoke to the sound of the bells ringing once again. The volume was much more reasonable, now that he wasn't right next to them. He checked his clock – 7:45am. Glancing over at the welcome guide's schedule, he saw that morning prayers didn't begin for another half hour. These bells must be a wake-up call. Dean groaned and rolled over for a moment, but managed to pull himself out of bed with relatively little effort. He crawled out of the tent, stood up, and stretched. The air was cool, and dew was still on the grass. Dean grabbed his toiletries bag and his towel, quickly laced his boots, and headed off toward the bathroom.

Some other visitors were already there, but there were enough shower stalls that the line to use one moved relatively quickly. The water wasn't as hot as he liked it, but it was warm enough for comfort. Surprisingly, though, he couldn't change the temperature. There was just a big button on the wall under the shower head that turned the water on for roughly thirty seconds, before it automatically turned off. That part was truly annoying. He supposed it was a good way to prevent water waste, but pushing the damn button over and over again quickly became tedious. Still, he managed to finish his shower and then find an available sink to brush his teeth. He'd fallen asleep without brushing them last night, and his mouth felt disgusting. He wasn't sure if wandering around in a towel would scandalize these fine Christian folks, so he put his dirty clothes back on before heading back to his tent to change into fresh ones. That seemed like a safer bet.

Once he'd finished getting ready, Dean pulled his copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ out of his backpack. He figured he'd read until breakfast time, which wasn't until after morning prayers were done. After just a few pages, he heard the bells ringing again – this time to call people to the church. A minute or so later, the front flaps of his tent rustled from someone banging on them, and Charlie's voice rang out, “C'mon c'mon, you'll be late!”

“You go ahead,” he replied, “I'll be along in a minute.” He heard her footsteps retreat, and settled back on his bed again to continue reading.

After a little while, he got to a part where the wife of Vonnegut's old army buddy decried that "you were just babies in the war!" Dean huffed a laugh. She should have seen him and Sammy as kids. They'd learned to clean guns at the same time they learned the alphabet. A is for action; B is for barrel; C is for cartridge.

Dean realized that he wasn't sure when breakfast actually started, since the schedule just said it was after morning prayers. He figured he should play it safe and head over to the food distribution area. He got up, taking his book with him, and headed out.

As he passed by the church, he heard an organ playing and many voices singing along. “Ad te Jesu Christe levavi animam meam. Salvator mundi, in te speravi.” Dean knew a smattering of Latin from his hunter's education. Not enough to be completely confident in his translation, but enough to know that it was something along the lines of “(Something something) lift my spirit, Jesus Christ… Savior of the world, in you (something something).”

Dean saw that he wasn't the only one playing hooky from prayers. Twenty people or so, some alone and some in small groups, sat around the church, listening to the prayer service but not participating. And as he got closer to the food distribution area, he saw (and heard) people hanging out around there, too. Some looked like they were already starting the lines to receive breakfast. Others were sitting in the covered patio area, talking and laughing with each other. In the food distribution pavilion, two apron-clad youths kept watch over the low tables and crates which had already been set out in anticipation of breakfast. Dean took a seat on one of the patio benches and opened his book to read.

It wasn't long before the distant sound of organ music wafting over from the church ended, right as Billy Pilgrim, the book's main character, emerged as the sole survivor of a plane crash. Dean shuddered. He was very glad that he hadn't read this on the flight over, after all.

Figuring that the food line was about to get a lot larger, Dean got up to take his place near the front while he still could. As he approached the front of the food distribution pavilion, he noticed two signs he hadn't seen the night before. One side of the pavilion was labeled “Tea,” and the other was labeled “Cocoa.” He looked around for a third sign reading “Coffee,” but had no such luck. Disappointed, he got in line on the cocoa side instead. Momentarily, a group of young people wearing white aprons and hairnets or white paper hats came through the kitchen doors, lugging huge pots with them. They set them down on the low tables, beyond the crates, and got in position to start serving. Dean looked back and saw a large crowd streaming out of the church and toward the food pavilion. The morning stillness was quickly replaced by indistinct chatter.

The apron-clad people started serving, and once again the lines moved with surprising speed for a crowd that looked so large and disorganized. He once again received a tray and a bowl – no plate or spoon this time. The next servers gave him a miniature baguette about four inches long, a foil-wrapped pat of butter, and two sticks of chocolate. The last one filled his bowl with a ladle-full of hot cocoa from one of the huge pots he'd seen them carrying out. He carried his tray toward the general area where he and Charlie had eaten supper the night before, and had a seat. He saw some people around him tearing their bread rolls open and using the flat chocolate sticks as knives to spread the butter, before sandwiching the chocolate itself between the two bread halves. Poor man's chocolate croissant, Dean mused to himself as he followed suit. And it did kind of taste like one.

“Mind if I sit here?” a familiar voice asked, right before she plopped down on the bench next to him, not waiting for an actual response.

“G'morning Charlie,” Dean mumbled around a mouthful of bread.

“Good morning!” she replied, overly chipper for the early hour in Dean's opinion. Her t-shirt today read, somewhat appropriately, “What About Second Breakfast?”

“Wish there was coffee,” Dean said, stifling a yawn.

Charlie sipped her tea. “Auxiliaires get coffee with breakfast,” she responded. “So do the adults in the over-thirty area. But they only get the instant kind. Auxiliaires get the real stuff.”

Dean groaned at the thought of going a whole week without coffee.

But Charlie continued. “There's always Kohvik, of course. I'm fine with tea, myself, but you can always tell who the caffeine addicts are because they dart off to Kohvik to get their fix before morning Bible study.”

Dean was tempted to hug her, but instead he downed the rest of his cocoa and sprung to his feet.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Charlie asked.

Dean replied, “To Kohvik, to get my fix!”

Kohvik coffee turned out to be the instant kind, and came in a cup that was a fraction of the size Dean would have preferred. But it was still better than nothing. As he sipped it, he thought about what he should do with the day. Bobby had said that he wasn't even sure what they were dealing with, so a basic sweep of the area was in order. The monastery grounds were large enough that a thorough sweep would probably take a couple of days. Since the attacks were all happening to sleeping visitors, though, he figured it was best to start with investigating the various tents and barracks.

Dean walked back to his tent and dropped off his book. He moved the sweatshirt in his suitcase that was hiding the hunting supplies and grabbed the walkman he'd converted into an EMF detector. He also grabbed his map, since he was far from knowing the grounds well enough to search everywhere without it.

No place to start like where he already was. Dean found the corner of the blue and orange tent area, and began walking slowly up and down the rows. He passed the EMF detector by each tent's door and kept his senses alert for anything unusual. All he found was a whole lot of nothing. Next were the huge grey tents, then the tents visitors had brought with them.

There had been occasional sounds from inside the tents – fellow Bible study ditchers – but now more people were appearing, walking around and talking with one another. The Bible study sessions must be over. Now people would be going to work, or enjoying some free time before midday prayers. Dean would have to be careful to blend in instead of standing out as the weirdo waving a walkman around.

Next came the lone, L-shaped barrack on this side of the main road. He peeked in a window while scanning the first door for EMF, and saw a room with four bunk beds and not much else. No wonder these accommodations were called “barracks,” he thought. The next room had the same layout, but with sheets or sleeping bags on the beds, suitcases stashed under the beds, and a few articles of clothing strewn about. He noticed a bra hanging from a bedpost, and quickly moved away from the window lest he be mistaken for a peeping tom.

By the time he'd finished examining all of the accommodations on the left side of the road, the bells for midday prayers were ringing. Dean knew that lunch would follow, so he decided it was as good a time as any to take a break. It wasn't hard work, but the midday heat was all the more incentive to rest a spell. He went back to his tent, swapped his map and EMF detector for his copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ again, and headed down to wait in the patio by the food pavilion.

The bells were still ringing as he walked past the church. People were streaming in, and a young person stood near each entrance holding a sign that said “Silence” in big, bold letters. The bells stopped, and the crowd waiting to get into the church reduced to a few stragglers hurrying to catch up. Dean made his way to the covered patio to read.

By the time the crowd started pouring out of the church and toward the food pavilion, just like it had for breakfast, Dean needed a break from the book anyway. The imagery of a middle-aged Billy Pilgrim crying in a bed with Magic Fingers had brought back a memory from not long after the fire. In a cheap motel room, in the middle of the night, something had woken him up. He didn't know what, but he could hear muffled sobs coming from his dad's bed.

The serving team again finished setting up the various crates and huge pots full of food. Dean shook his head to clear it, and got in line. This time there was bread, some sort of spreadable cheese, a couple of small plums, a packet of cookies, and a main dish of peas and carrots with a few chicken nuggets on top. Dean frowned at the portion size. True, there had been plenty of hunts where he hadn't had the luxury of stopping for lunch at all. But that only made him crave larger portions when he did eat. His wish came true part-way through the meal. Once the entire crowd had made it through the serving lines, the servers carried a few leftover trays of chicken nuggets over to the covered patio, and set them down on a low table that had seemingly been placed there for just this purpose. The trays were quickly surrounded by people getting second helpings, but there was still plenty left when Dean got to the center of the throng. He helped himself to another several nuggets.

After lunch, Dean continued his sweep of the visitor accommodations. He ventured over to investigate the barracks around Nyumba. As with his sweeps before lunch, he turned up nothing. Finally, there were the tents and camping trailers (or “caravans,” as Sander had called them yesterday) in the area for adults over thirty. And that was that. He'd gone through every area where visitors slept, and found nothing. No EMF, no sulfur smell, no obvious signs of monster activity. Whatever they were facing, it knew how to be stealthy.

Dean headed back down toward the food pavilion. The schedule said it was teatime, and he felt like he was long overdue for a break anyway. Dean was pleasantly surprised to find that the line for tea was infinitely shorter than it was for meals. He got a bowl of iced tea and something called a Quadro Pocket – a foil-wrapped sandwich cookie made up of two wafer cookies with a hazelnut cream filling. The sugar rush was just what he needed to perk up after a pretty disappointing day of searching. And he hadn't even started on the main buildings yet. Dean groaned as he stood up. Finding nothing and more nothing everywhere he went was getting really tedious.

Dean looked at his map to figure out where to go next. He decided that the wooded area labeled “La Cascade” would be a welcome change from all the tents and barracks. Next to the entrance gate, a sign listed the hours La Cascade was open. He headed in. There was a large canopy tent just to his left, and an open field stretching in front of him. Groups of young people sat on the grass. Some appeared to be discussing their Bible lessons from that morning. More of them were playing games or just goofing off. Dean envied that they got to take a week off from their normal responsibilities, but ultimately, keeping them safe was precisely why he was doing this.

The path curved around and entered a wooded area. There was another gate, and just beyond it a prominently placed sign calling for “Silence” in bold, black letters. Once he'd finished checking out the downward-sloping paths through the woods, the ground leveled off and Dean emerged into a large clearing. A neatly manicured field lay in front of him. Dean heard the occasional murmur or peal of laughter, but people seemed to more or less respect the silence of the area.

To the right of the field there was a large pond, with a smaller one off to the side. A small waterfall, only ten feet tall or so, fell a few feet and then trickled down rocks until it reached the small pond. In front of the pond stood several seats made from tree stumps, though none were occupied at the present moment.

Dean was jarred from his thoughts by a screeching coming from the earbuds attached to his EMF detector. It was minimal, compared to what he'd heard in places with confirmed hauntings, but it was definitely something. He spent some extra time looking for anything else unusual about the pond or waterfall, but the EMF was his only finding. Dean made a mental note, and continued along.

“Hello,” said a young woman with an overly cheery smile. “La Cascade will be closing soon, so if you could please make your way back up to the gates?”

“What?” said Dean, startled out of his thoughts. He checked his watch – there was supposed to be another twenty minutes before closing. He was basically done scanning the area, though, so it was no problem to head back up the hill now. “Yeah, uh, sure,” he said. The young woman nodded and moved on to the next person. Satisfied that he'd found something, at least, after all the searching he'd done so far, Dean went back up the paths until he emerged back through the upper gate.

People were starting to gather outside the food pavilion. Dean looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly supper time. The trek back from La Cascade must have taken longer than he'd thought. He went to sit down in the covered patio, and saw a familiar shock of red hair – Charlie was sitting on a bench, writing in a journal. Dean sat down next to her.

“Oh, hi!” Charlie said, looking up. “So how was your first day back?”

“It's all just like I remembered,” Dean replied. That was a safe reply. Probably.

“Yeah, every time I come back, it feels like I'm just picking up where I left off last time,” she said.

“How many times have you been here, anyway?” Dean asked.

“Let's see… The first time I came was with my church confirmation class, when I was fifteen. I've come back pretty much every year since, except for the year I had to cancel at the last minute because I caught the flu (in the middle of summer, can you believe it?) but I came twice last summer (once as a regular visitor, once as an auxiliaire) so that makes this my…” she counted on her fingers “fifth visit. And my second time coming alone. Plus, I went to the regional meetings in Spain and Hungary, and volunteered at the one in Poland. How about you?”

Time to bluff. “Oh, it's only my second time. I came with my little brother a couple of years ago, but he's busy with summer classes at college so I came alone this time. I'm glad I met someone else to–” he caught himself before he could say “show me the ropes.” Instead, he just finished “–talk to.”

“Aw, you don't like your Bible study small group?” Charlie asked. “It's only the first day – you can switch to another one, if you really need to. But give them a chance first!”

“Oh, no, they're fine. But they're not my neighbor who makes sure I'm awake for morning prayers,” Dean recovered. He flashed a friendly grin, and Charlie went a little pink.

“So how does an American find out about St. Chuck's in the first place, anyway?” she asked.

This, Dean could answer truthfully. “My dad was old friends with one of the brothers before he moved here to, well, become a brother. He invited us.”

Charlie looked impressed, but it quickly turned to amusement. “Personal invitation from a brother, and you're still stuck in a tent like the rest of us?”

“Yeah, well, I guess he didn't want to rob me of the full St. Chuck's experience,” Dean replied. “Speaking of which, it looks like we should get in line before it gets much longer,” he said, nodding toward the crowd gathering for supper. He stood up, offered a hand to help Charlie up, and walked with her to get in line. They stood next to each other, but split off into separate lines to be served.

Dean was starting to see a pattern in the meals. As with lunch, there was a main dish (green beans and potatoes with a slice of ham unceremoniously plopped on top, this time), fruit, cheese or yogurt, baguette, and a dessert. Sammy would probably gush about how well-balanced it was, but Dean for his part preferred his food with a little less green and a lot more grease. Dean quickly gave up trying to eat the ham with his spoon, and just picked it up with his fingers. Charlie seemed amused, as she tore dainty pieces from her slice of cheese.

“Hey, how come you got more cheese instead of ham?” Dean asked.

“Because I was in a vegetarian line, of course,” she replied, as if it was the most obvious thing ever. Apparently it was just luck that landed Dean in a meat line today. He'd have to pay closer attention to make sure he never accidentally ended up in the rabbit food line in the future.

They focused on eating for a little while before Dean casually wondered out loud, “I wonder why that 'seven' place doesn't have a name, like the other buildings.”

Charlie awkwardly stuffed a few green beans into her mouth with her spoon, chewed, and swallowed before answering. “Maybe because it's not really a building? Just a few closets. I take it you weren't on toilet cleaning duty last time you were here?”

“Uh, no,” Dean said. “No toilets, thank god. I had, uh, cooking duty.”

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, you'll get to know Site Seven pretty well if you ever have to clean the toilets. That's where all the cleaning supplies are kept.”

“Why 'seven' though? What happened to the first six sites?”

Charlie shrugged. “There used to be a lot more places that just went by numbers. The first time I was here, Hoeseog was just called Rooms Ten, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, and Fifteen.”

“Wait, what happened to Room Eleven?” asked Dean.

Charlie shrugged again. “Maybe that's why they finally gave it a proper name. Cause they got sick of people asking that!”

After supper, it turned out there were no good options for where to investigate next. All the buildings that were left were either locked up, or in use in ways where he couldn't just blend in. The kitchen connected to the food pavilion was busy with people cleaning up. The church, Dean reckoned, would be dotted with people getting everything ready for evening prayers. Kohvik, La Boutique, and Caerwys were all locked up. He'd have to come back another time. And besides, between walking around all day and still being jet-lagged, he was exhausted. He decided to call it a day.

Dean lay down on a bench to relax with _Slaughterhouse-Five_. Eventually, the bells rang to call people to evening prayers, but no one seemed to notice or care that he stayed right where he was. Faint music soon started drifting over from the church, though Dean was too far away to make out any words.

He flipped through the pages to find where he'd left off. He'd made a surprising amount of progress for one day. Things were starting to get weird, though. Billy had just been abducted by aliens. Actual aliens, from outer space.

After a while, Dean saw people starting to exit the church. He gave the idea of scanning inside the church some half-assed consideration, but easily talked himself out of it. After all, if services were over for the day, there was a real risk that he'd end up locked inside. He'd made the right call – more investigations could wait until tomorrow. For now, Kohvik – or more importantly, the beer sold there – was calling his name.

There was still a half hour before Kohvik opened for the evening, so Dean wandered toward his tent to drop off his book. As he passed by the church for what felt like the thousandth time that day, a crowd of people were still standing outside. Some were chatting, some were just admiring the sunset. It felt odd to see something so familiar in such a strange environment. Back to his tent, he moved his EMF detector off of the bed where he'd left it, and flopped down onto the mattress. His feet were sore from so much walking, so he took off his boots and rubbed them.

It was dark inside the tent. Between the dark and the quiet, Dean dozed off early for the second night in a row.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * The actual translation for “Ad te Jesu Christe” is “To you, Jesus Christ, I lift my soul. Savior of the world, I trust in you.”
>   * I gave Hoeseog a name because it was really awkward to keep calling it “the motel-like building” haha. And if you think the mystery of the missing Room 11 will be important later on... sorry. Total red herring. This fic has a good handful of those. The numbering scheme is just how it is at the real “St. Chuck's,” and I don't know why.
> 



	5. Week One, Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Photos:
>     * Church
>       * [Outside](https://mw2.google.com/mw-panoramio/photos/medium/1713286.jpg)
>       * [Front](https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/0e/f0/f8/0c/church-in-taize.jpg) ([Detail](https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/0c/f9/75/ce/taize-church-altar.jpg))
>       * [Crypt](http://www.eferrari.it/taize/wallpaper/wp_crypt.jpg)
>       * [Stained](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/2/0/202-i.jpg) [glass](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/p/e/pentecote.jpg) [examples](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/s/t/st_francois_p_1.jpg)
>       * [Icons](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/I/c/Icone-Amitie_1.jpg) [from](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/r/e/ressurection1.jpg) [the](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/3/8/384_trinite_ws_1.jpg) [church](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/m/i/misericorde.jpg) [and](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/c/r/croix_1.jpg) [shrines](https://shop.taize.fr/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/3/0/301-i.jpg)
> 


It wasn't too long before the sound of voices woke Dean up. It was still dark, and Dean felt disoriented. He checked his alarm clock – it was only eleven o'clock. Dammit, he'd slept right through Kohvik's evening hours. And he'd really wanted that beer. The people coming back from there were being obnoxiously loud. Dean rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head.

It wasn't until morning, when the wake-up bells started ringing, that Dean realized he'd slept in his clothes and forgotten to brush his teeth for the second night in a row. He really had to stop doing that. Hunts didn't always afford time to change clothes and bathe, but he didn't have that excuse this time.

Dean rolled out of bed and set about his morning routine. Once he was showered, brushed, and dressed, he heard the morning prayer bells ringing and groaned. If most of the other people around were going to the church now, that meant this was an opportunity for him to take his EMF detector and investigate yet another area. And, most likely, turn up nothing.

Dean headed down to the food pavilion, bringing his EMF detector with him this time. As usual, he started by scouting around the outside. He started in the food serving area. As yesterday, a couple of youths in aprons stood guard over the breakfast spread. Dean made to look like he was just passing through while fiddling with his “walkman.” His arced path didn't cover the space as thoroughly as he would have liked, but it was the most he could do with people watching.

He rounded the corner to the washing-up area, where there stood several large metal tubs with water spigots. Bobby had said that every visitor who can work, does, and Dean had seen groups of visitors around each tub after meals, hard at work washing countless dishes.

There was a door in the back wall which was, to Dean's surprise, unlocked. The first room was apparently storage for cooking and eating implements. The next room was a pantry, packed with enormous bags of rice, vegetables and beans in cans as big as Dean's head, and other ingredients. There were bins full of cookies (Dean may have shoved a few into his pockets) and crates of fresh fruit. The EMF meter gave off a strong signal around the two walk-in freezers, but that was to be expected given all the electricity they used. Satisfied that this room was monster-free, Dean headed through the next door.

Shit, someone was there. A lone boy in a white apron and hat stood with his back to Dean. He held two big spoons, and was giving each of several large pots – the kind that the tea and cocoa had been served from at yesterday's breakfast – a good stir. Well, time to put on his “oblivious but harmless” act.

Dean took out one earbud and coughed, making the boy jump slightly and turn around. “Hey,” he said, trying to make his voice sound croaky. “Do you know where I can get a drink of water? My throat is really dry.” He coughed again for effect.

“Uh,” the boy started, clearly startled by Dean's presence. “You can get water from the taps outside.” He pointed at the only other door in the room, which apparently led back out to the food pavilion and the covered patio.

Dean put on a sheepish look. “I know, but I don't have a water bottle. I was hoping I could borrow a bowl.”

The boy looked like he was weighing his options for a moment, before giving in and saying “There are racks full of them two rooms over.” He pointed back the way Dean had come. “Just be sure to bring it back to the washing-up area when you're done.”

“Thanks,” said Dean. “Wow, I've never been in here before. Those things are huge!” He wandered over to a row of four cooking pots, which could double as kiddie pools or small bathtubs. Dean used his amazement as cover for getting close enough to scan them for EMF. “And are these ovens?” He crossed the room to the three ovens against the opposite wall. Through the glass panels on the doors, he could see that if the racks were removed, each oven could easily fit a full-grown person standing upright. This place might come in handy if it turns out I have to bake, boil, or fry the baddie, Dean thought.

The boy in the apron was starting to look nervous. “I don't think you're really supposed to be in here, actually,” he said. “And definitely not without a hat or a hairnet. Maybe it's best if you get your water and go.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Dean replied, making finger guns and winking. He meandered his way through as much of the room as he thought he could get away with, before finally heading back into the pantry. As he'd expected, he hadn't detected anything unusual in the entire building. But using a successful ruse, even one as small as asking for some water, was always a bit of a rush.

Dean and Charlie had breakfast together again. It was the same as yesterday, except with jam instead of chocolate sticks. Afterward, he once again went to Kohvik for a cup of crappy instant coffee. He tried ordering it at the window this time, hoping it would be better than what he got yesterday from the machine, but it turned out to be exactly the same.

After downing his coffee, Dean scouted around the building with his EMF detector. The only readings came from the electricity-powered vending machines. He ducked in one of the back doors and found a storage room with cases of soda and various candies, tubs of Nutella stacked in an impressive tower, and a walk-in freezer full of boxes labeled “Pizza au Fromage,” “Croque Monsieur,” and “Crêpes.”

Neither the room with the conveyor toaster ovens and the (currently closed) concession windows, nor the one with refrigerators full of wine and beer, yielded anything interesting. He had to skip the room with the coffee machine, though, given that he'd purchased a cup not fifteen minutes earlier and would surely be recognized.

Finally there was the last room, at the other end of the building, with a wooden sign over the door reading “Bazaar.” Here, people could apparently purchase necessities they might have forgotten, like pens, toothpaste, and tissues. There was also a small range of snacks available. Dean was tempted to buy a chocolate bar while he was here, but remembered the cookies still in his pocket. He did, however, buy a small tube of sunscreen. Just because he'd gotten a little burned yesterday didn't mean he had to make it any worse.

Dean mentally checked Kohvik off of the list of places he still had to check. That left only… seven more buildings. Plus a whole mess of additional, outdoor spots. He sighed. This was going to be a long week. Might as well see if he could get the church out of the way. It was as good a place as any to go next.

On his way around the church, Dean found a grassy area with a small shrine featuring a religious icon painting of the Virgin Mary and child Jesus. Several burnt-out tea candles sat on a small ledge beneath the icon.

On the side of the church building itself, Dean saw a sign labeled “Crypt” with an arrow pointing toward an otherwise unassuming door. Now this was more like it! If there were spooky things going on, a crypt seemed as likely as anywhere to be the epicenter. He entered, expecting to find stairs leading down to a catacomb. Instead, he found a round room decorated as a chapel, with an altar, candles, and chairs (not benches!) all arranged around a central pillar. So much for a nice creepy burial space.

Leaving the crypt, Dean bumped into a pair of people on the sidewalk. They must have arrived during the few minutes he'd been inside, because he was sure the area had been vacant before.

“Are you looking for your Bible study?” the young woman asked, in a cheery tone of voice.

“Yeah, uh, I think I got the wrong door.” He pointed back at the crypt with his thumb.

“There's one in Room N, is that what you were trying to find?” This time it was the young man who spoke.

“Sounds right, yeah,” Dean played along.

“You just passed it. Come, we'll help you find your way.” The woman spoke again. These were either very helpful (but slightly nosy) visitors, or auxiliaires tasked with making sure people were wherever they were supposed to be. Dean figured the easiest way to ditch them would be to just go along to wherever they were taking him, and sneak out again once they were gone.

The auxiliaires led Dean to a side door into the church itself, and ushered him inside. He crept in as unobtrusively as he could and sat down on the floor, just next to the door. An older man dressed similarly to Bobby, in a button-down shirt, khakis, and fisherman sandals (Dean got a “brother” vibe off of him), was speaking to a group of assembled youths there. Some were sitting on benches, and some on the floor. They all looked to be in their late teens or early twenties, which was a stroke of luck. If this had been the Bible study for the fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, the auxiliaires might have rightfully questioned his story. He figured it was safest to wait a few minutes before venturing back outside.

The brother at the front of the room was in the middle of giving a lesson. He was speaking English, but paused every few sentences so some of the young adults could translate for their neighbors. Dean could tell that was what was going on, because he just so happened to be behind the girl who was apparently the designated translator for… Spanish? Probably?

“…so when it says Jesus 'loved his own who were in the world,'” said the brother, “what kind of love is he demonstrating?”

“Agape!” called out one of the youths.

“Yes,” said the brother. “Agape is the form most commonly associated with divine love. It's unconditional, self-giving love. Eros, on the other hand, sexual love, is passionate and forceful.”

Dean was surprised by the nonchalant manner in which the celibate monk referenced “eros.”

“Philia is friendship, or brotherhood,” the brother continued. “Notably, especially in the ancient world, it's love between equals. Storge is generally defined as familial love, and also has strong connotations of loyalty.”

John's and Sam's faces flashed through Dean's mind at the mention of family and loyalty. He felt a strange knot form in his stomach.

“But Jesus' love is not limited to agape. We also see philia and storge – one of Jesus' last acts on the cross is to bring the beloved disciple into his own family, and a few chapters before that, he says that he does not call his disciples servants, but friends. Consider what a powerful statement that is, for a divine being – through the Incarnation – to declare a level of equality between himself and his worshippers. That's unprecedented – to the ancient pagans, the gods were on one tier of existence and human beings were on another tier. But then here comes this God who pours himself out to bridge that gap, who lowers himself in order to lift humanity up.

“So while not limited to agape, Jesus' love is certainly focused there, in this self-giving. Ultimately, he gives his whole life. A little further down in this passage, we see Jesus taking on the role of a servant when he washes his disciples' feet. And that wasn't just a task for a servant, but for the lowest servant in the household. We can compare this with passages in the other three gospels where, in a world where most people with power want to flaunt it over you, Jesus says that he came not to be served, but to serve. So for Jesus, love and service to others are intrinsically connected.”

Well duh, thought Dean. What the hell was love if you didn't, you know, show it?

“Who are the servants in our world today?” the brother asked, rhetorically. “How do we treat them? Do we flaunt our power over them, or show them Christ's love by lowering ourselves and raising them up? To a large extent, the servants of this world are hidden out of sight. In the ancient world, a family of any means at all would have household servants they saw every day. But today, they're hidden away in factories, making goods we use, but we rarely if ever see the people themselves…”

This wasn't where Dean had expected the lesson to go, but he didn't have time to stay and listen. He had work to do, and the auxiliaires had surely moved on by now. As unobtrusively as he could, Dean stood up and snuck back out the door.

Dean continued back around the building to another door, and finally entered the main interior of the church. It was a huge room, and largely unfurnished. By each door, there were wooden boxes holding songbooks and papers with Bible verses printed in several different languages. There were a few benches along the back wall, but the majority of the space had nothing to sit on save for the floor itself. To the left and right, there were metal gratings partitioning off the Bible study room, and a presumably similar room on the other side.

Pillars dotted the main room, each displaying a different religious icon. Starting maybe two thirds of the way down, the center area of the floor was cordoned off with a long, narrow wooden planter holding a line of small boxwood shrubs. Inside this area, short little wooden benches were spaced out more or less evenly, and a few chairs were lined up single-file along the right side. A songbook lay beneath each bench, and a few microphones sat on the floor with their cords neatly coiled beside them.

Instead of a big wooden cross hanging front and center, like in Pastor Jim's church, there was a large crucifix icon on a stand off to the side. Pastor Jim's church didn't have a single icon, that Dean could remember, but here they were all over the place.

A glint of red caught Dean's eye and he turned to see, set deeply into the concrete walls, a series of small stained glass windows. All things considered, they were one of the few aspects of this church which felt familiar.

Dean finished his scan of the church and headed back outside, blinking a few times in the bright light. The nearest building was La Boutique, but the doors there were closed and locked. Dean felt like taking a break anyway, so he headed back to his tent.

The bells for midday prayers started ringing. Charlie appeared at the entrance to Dean's tent, which he'd left open so fresh air could get in, carrying a small wooden bench just like the ones he had seen in the church. “Hey Dean! Coming to prayers?”

Aw man, she seemed pretty cool, but she was inadvertently becoming someone he had to dodge. “Yeah, in a minute,” he said, taking his time pretending to put his book away. “Just gotta, uh, put my boots on, check a couple of things… Go on, I'll catch up.”

“Ok, see you there!” She sauntered off, perky as ever.

Once she was gone, he pulled _Slaughterhouse-Five_ back out and laid back to relax again. He opened up one of the packets of cookies he'd acquired earlier that day and snacked while he read. Billy was trying to tell other people about the aliens who'd abducted him, but they just assumed he was insane. No kidding, thought Dean. Telling people about monsters generally had the same result.

After a half hour had passed, he realized that midday prayers were probably ending and he should go try to get a good spot in the lunch line. The church was much closer to the food pavilion than he was, though, and by the time he got there, there was already a sizable crowd. Ah well, can't win 'em all. He spotted Charlie's red hair in the crowd, and managed to make his way over toward her without an undue amount of pushing.

“You said you'd catch up,” she said, giving Dean a playful punch in the arm.

“Yeah, sorry,” he responded. “By the time I got there, the church was pretty packed and I didn't see you.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, “It's impossible to find anyone once you're inside.”

Phew, saved. Good thing she took the whole “trust” thing to heart. He wasn't used to keeping up an act for so much… small talk. But it was nice to have at least one friendly face in a place packed with strangers, so he'd manage.

They got their lunches (pasta marinara, with the usual accompaniments) and found a spot over by the bell tower. “This could use a little more sauce. Or a lot,” Dean said.

“Yeah, some of the auxiliaires put ketchup on it to make it seem like more. Auxiliaires get ketchup, too.”

Dean laughed and almost snorted pasta out his nose. “That sounds like the sort of thing I did to feed my brother Sammy.”

“Did you get stuck babysitting a lot?” Charlie asked, in a sympathetic tone of voice.

“Yeah, you could say that. Dad… travelled a lot on business. So it was just the two of us a lot of the time.”

“No mom?”

“No,” Dean said, looking down at his plate. “She died when I was four. Sam was just a baby.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Charlie said, her eyes going wide. “My parents are out of the picture, too. I was in foster care from the time I was ten. Technically I just aged out, though in reality I've been on my own for a while now.”

They shared a moment of somber silence. Dean was tempted to ask about how she got by, but was worried that if he did, she might start asking too many questions about his own survival tactics.

An opportunity to change the subject came when he tried to open his packet of cookies, and accidentally dropped it on the ground. When he bent down to retrieve it, he saw something blue on Charlie's ankle that he hadn't noticed before. “Hey, what's your tattoo?” he asked.

“Oh that one? That's the Patronus Charm from Harry Potter!” She lifted her foot up onto the bench so Dean could get a better look. The image was of a wand with wisps of silver-blue coming out of the tip and encircling her ankle. Just above it were written the words “Expecto Patronum” in ornate letters. “A Patronus wards away evil,” she explained. “Have you read the books?”

“My brother did. I never got around to it, even though he kept telling me I should.”

“Oh, you really, really should! I could loan you mine– oh, except mine are in German.”

“You brought them with you?” Dean chuckled.

“Only the first three!” she said, as if that made all the difference. “I'm here for two whole months! I need something to read!”

Dean couldn't fault her for that, given his own free-time activity of late. “Got any other tattoos?” he asked. “All tattoos are sexy.” Charlie looked down at her tray, her face turning pink. “Oh, now you have to tell me!” said Dean.

“It's Princess Leia in a slave bikini, straddling a 20-sided die,” she muttered. Dean snorted a laugh. “I was drunk!” Charlie protested. “It was Comic Con!”

“I really want to get a tattoo someday,” said Dean.

“Do it,” Charlie replied. “Assuming you have a good idea for what to get, of course.”

“That's the problem – I just can't decide. I dunno, maybe some kind of memorial for my mom. Or maybe my car.”

Charlie laughed. “A tattoo of your car? That is the most American thing I've ever heard!”

“C'mon, my car is really important to me! I've put a lot of work into keeping her running! Besides, I could have said 'my favorite gun.'”

Charlie's eyes went wide. “You have a gun?”

“Well, I mean, not with me,” Dean hastened to clarify. Though truth be told, he'd feel a whole lot safer if he did. Ironically, not finding signs of the monster anywhere was starting to make him more worried that it would show up and catch him off guard.

“You're right,” said Charlie, shaking her head. “That would be even more American.”

After lunch, La Boutique was finally open. Charlie had a meeting with her Bible study small group, so Dean was able to retrieve his EMF detector from his tent without fending off any questions. Dean wondered what he would find inside La Boutique. What did monks sell, anyway? Didn't some of them make beer? Maybe if he was lucky, it would be beer.

Instead, the first thing he saw was a bunch of postcards on a large display shelf. They featured pictures of the welcome sign, the bell tower, flowers, the inside of the church (so the brothers did wear monk robes after all – during prayers, at least), and a dozen or more different photographs from around the monastery grounds. A nearby table held songbooks like the ones in the church, as well as books with the solos and instrumental parts. Over in the next corner, there were bookshelves labeled by language. The English one, at least, contained books on the history of the monastery, and a range of spiritual-sounding topics featuring words like “Hope” and “Faith” in their titles.

The floor was dotted with display cases containing enamel pendants in a range of colors. In addition to simple crosses and doves, there were round, oval, and leaf-shaped pendants painted with designs like flames or an alpha and omega, or colorful abstract patterns. Each design was accompanied by a different Bible verse.

Working his way around, Dean came to a large pottery display. There were stacks of plates, bowls, mugs, and even teapots formed from clay, glazed, and organized by color. A table toward the center of the room held vases in a range of shapes and sizes, decorative ceramic doves each painted differently from the next, and oil lamps ready to be filled and lit. Thanks to occasional boring afternoons spent in Pastor Jim's office as a kid, Dean recognized the large chalices and plates, on a shelf off to the side, as communion sets for holding bread and wine during church services. He felt nervous around so many breakables, and was glad to move on once he'd scanned each display.

Next he came upon artwork made by the brothers – everything from original sketches, to prints of more popular pieces, to collages of Biblical scenes meticulously constructed out of tree bark and sealed with varnish. Then came CDs of the community's music, followed by prints in various sizes of the icons and stained glass windows Dean had seen in the church.

Finally, in the last corner of the shop, Dean found stacks of the wooden benches he'd seen in the central area inside the church. He picked one up. He didn't see how such a low bench could possibly be comfortable to sit on, but if they sold enough to keep stacks of them around, plenty of other people must disagree. Dean put the bench back and left the building. One more down. Too many more still to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Yes, Comic Con exists in Germany. I checked :-P
> 



	6. Week One, Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * The song Dean hears coming from the church this evening is [“I am sure I shall see the goodness of the Lord”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LW_cU7TeOWw)
>   * Photos:
>     * [Rose](https://i.imgur.com/OdqjEYM.jpg)
> 


Kuća was easy enough to finish, given that it was only one room. Dean got a weird look from one of the counter attendants, but she said nothing. He glanced at the flyers in the windows that he hadn't bothered to look at when he'd first arrived. There was a list of today's workshops, dates and other information about the upcoming triple anniversary week… Nothing particularly interesting.

Māja would be a bit trickier. As Dean headed toward the hallway in the far right corner, the auxiliaire at the podium called out to him. “Can I help you?” There was a certain edge to his voice which made it pretty clear that Dean had been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

“Oh, no it's fine,” Dean said. “I'm working on a special project for Brother Robert.”

The auxiliaire appeared to be thinking for a moment, then his face softened just a bit and he said “One moment, I think there's a message for you.” He picked up a box from behind the podium and rifled through the slips of paper inside it for a few moments, before pulling out one slip. “Dean?” he asked.

“That's me,” Dean replied. The auxiliaire handed him the paper.

Dean quickly read the note, then read it again, intentionally speaking the words aloud under his breath for the auxiliaire's benefit. “Dean, let's meet tomorrow (Thursday) at 3pm to go over your special project. –Br. Robert” Dean nodded his thanks to the auxiliaire and once again headed toward the hallway.

“You're really not supposed to go that way without a brother,” the auxiliaire called after him.

“It's okay, it's for the project,” Dean called back, and kept walking. The auxiliaire didn't move to stop him.

While scanning the two big meeting rooms and ten small ones, Dean noticed a glass doorway to a garden outside. A few middle-aged men sat on benches, two playing chess and another one reading a book. Dean reasoned that it must be the beginning of the brothers' private part of the grounds. He quickly scanned along the doorway, and kept moving before somebody looked up and saw him.

Back outside he found a door, under the staircase to the second floor, with a sign in the window reading “Lost and Found” and a list of hours when it was open. The door was currently locked, though, so instead he climbed the stairs and checked – surprise surprise – yet another meeting room. Other upstairs rooms were visible from outside of the building, but Dean couldn't see a way to get to them. It appeared that they were only accessible from the brothers' side. Dean sighed. Only three more buildings to go.

At lunch (lentil stew for everyone, vegetarian or not), Dean and Charlie sat in the covered patio. “How many siblings do you have? You mentioned having a brother, right?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah, just the one brother, Sam.” Discussing his personal life was risky, but in this situation, being evasive was also risky. He was supposed to be just another visitor, after all. “How about you?”

“Nah. It's just me,” Charlie said. “I always wished I had a little sister, though.”

“Little brothers and sisters – the most annoying people you can't help but love,” Dean said.

Charlie giggled. “Are they really that bad?”

“Nah,” Dean said, crumbling up his speculaas cookies inside their packet. “And yes.” He dumped the cookie crumbles into his yogurt. “Somehow, both. I dunno, it doesn't make sense. He annoys the crap out of me sometimes, but I'd do anything for that kid.”

Except visit him, said a little voice in the back of his mind. Dean shoved it back down. Sammy didn't want his respectable college friends to see his degenerate family – he was doing him a favor by staying away. He was letting Sam have the life he wanted, away from all the Winchester family drama. Away from him. Dean felt a pang in his chest. “Hell,” he continued, “I'd sell my soul for him.”

“Well hopefully it never comes to that!” Charlie replied. “You said he's in university, right?”

“Yeah, yeah he has one more year left.”

“I have three more years,” Charlie said.

“Aw, you're just a youngster,” Dean said, ruffling her hair.

She ducked away from him. “Shove it, old man! I’d already hacked the Deutsche Bundesbank by the time you could legally drink!”

“Damn, sounds pretty illegal,” Dean said. Not that he could talk, of course.

Charlie shrugged. “Only if you get caught!”

Dean chuckled and scraped the last bit of yogurt and cookie crumbles from the container. He was done eating, but Charlie was still working on her own yogurt so he didn't want to go return his dishes to the washing-up area and leave her alone.

“So how does it work with the auxiliaires?” he asked. “How does everything get translated? Is it like at the Bible studies, all the time?”

Charlie shook her head, still holding her spoon in her mouth. “All the auxiliaires speak English,” she said, once she'd finished her mouthful. “More or less.”

“More or less?” asked Dean.

“Some speak St. Chuck's English. Enough to get by while they're here, but not exactly fluent.” Dean nodded thoughtfully. He felt almost like he was cheating by being a native speaker. “It's the same for the brothers, actually,” Charlie continued. “Their official language is French, but some of them really only speak St. Chuck's French.”

“All of the brothers speak French?” Dean asked.

“More or less,” Charlie confirmed. “If they don't already know it when they become brothers, their first official duty is to learn it. And not all of them speak English, so French is the only language they all have in common.”

When Charlie finished her dessert, she took Dean's tray, unbidden, and bussed it for him. He hadn't had a chance to drop off his EMF scanner before lunch, so he took the opportunity to quickly scan the covered patio. A big bulletin board took up most of the side wall. It was positively covered in pieces of paper, stuck to it with thumb tacks. “Looking for ride to Pérouges this Sunday,” read one. “Missing hat. Reward! Call Helmut,” read another. “Have A Happy Day” read a third, with a drawing of a smiley face. Most posts contained a phone number of some kind, while a few contained conversations in different handwritings and ink colors. The majority of the notes were in English (with varying qualities of grammar), but scattered here and there were other languages. I could leave a note asking if anyone's seen a monster anywhere, Dean mused to himself. As if any hunt was ever that easy.

After lunch, Dean got started on some of the outdoor areas – parking lots, meeting tents, and the ball field. Next he went to the small shack he'd seen near Caerwys. It turned out to be the one place in St. Chuck's where visitors had access to the internet. Several people were waiting their turn to use one of the two computer kiosks. Now that he thought about it, Dean remembered having seen a machine selling internet access cards over at Kohvik. At two euros for only thirty minutes, they were pretty pricey. The machine, as he recalled, also advertised phone cards for the bank of pay phones he had passed on the way to the internet shack. The shack had a trash can for used up internet access cards, but discarded cards nevertheless dotted the floor and the grass around the building.

Tea today came with a chocolate chip cookie. It was thin and crispy, and was actually pretty damn good for a packaged deal. He was loathe to get up and walk around more after sitting down to enjoy his tea, so he said screw it and decided to keep working on _Slaughterhouse-Five_ instead. Billy had found strange lumps in the lining of his coat which telepathically told him that they'd work miracles for him, as long as he didn't try to figure out what they were. Yeah, because that doesn't scream "dark magic" or anything, Dean thought. You shouldn't need a hunter's instincts for that to start ringing alarm bells!

Dean didn't get up the motivation to go to work again until the bells for evening prayers started to ring. He screwed up his courage and decided to start on the monastery's many bathrooms. There were enough people around that he didn't dare try to sneak into the women's rooms, but he did a thorough walk-around. The investigation took Dean all over the grounds once again. As he passed by the church, he heard singing. This time it was in English. “I am sure I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Yes, I shall see the goodness of our God, hold firm, trust in the Lord.” That sounded all warm and fuzzy, but what Dean had trust in were the weapons he used to gank monsters and remove them from the land of the living.

A rosebush in bloom stood outside the stone building that housed the bathrooms near the church, just between the men's door and the women's door. Dean found it amusing – trying to pretty up an inherently gross location – but he had to admit that it did look nice.

Checking the bathrooms brought him near Hoeseog, which was open. It turned out to be yet more simple, white-walled, bench-filled meeting rooms. Hoeseog was right next to Site Seven, which was really just a sort of recessed nook. The left and right sides were lined with flimsy-looking doors – the closets which Charlie had said contained cleaning supplies. The doors were all locked, but a scan of the outsides turned up a grand total of absolutely nothing. Just like every other friggin' place.


	7. Week One, Thursday

It was morning when Dean made his way toward Caerwys. There were a few vehicles parked next to the building. They looked old, but in decent enough shape. The door was inside a fenced area containing a small garden of decorative shrubs and flowers. Dean went through the gate and into the building. In contrast with the garden, the atmosphere inside reminded Dean of a mechanic's shop – concrete structure, tools hanging on a wall over here and a wall of storage drawers over there, no aesthetic considerations of any kind. Dean kinda liked it.

Ahead of him, an open door led to a courtyard out back, surrounded by a tall privacy fence. Despite streaks of paint all over the walls, and dried paint drips on the concrete floor, Dean didn't see the sorts of odds and ends lying around that he'd have expected in a place like this. And he hadn't inside, either. Hell, there was even a recycling bin right next to the garbage can. These religious folks must take the “next to godliness” adage seriously. Dean went back inside.

Down at the far end of the room, there was a wide open door. Dean strode in and heard the words he was starting to dread. “Can I help you?” A young blond man sat at a desk in what appeared to be an office. Unlike the rest of the place, this room was a bit on the disorganized side. Papers lay strewn across the desk and also across the table on the far side of the room, and a filing cabinet in the corner had a drawer sticking out with a file propped up halfway. The most well-organized thing in the room was the pegboard on the wall, on which hung a few dozen keys.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said, desperately wracking his brain for an excuse. “Brother Robert sent me. He wanted to know if, uh, you'd found the missing toolbox.”

“I didn't know we were missing any toolboxes,” the man, with an expression halfway between puzzled and worried. He got up and went into the main room to check.

Dean took the opportunity to quickly scan around the small room. No findings. What a surprise.

The man came back. “All of our toolboxes are accounted for,” he said. “Also, if Brother Robert is worried about the tents in the far quarter, tell him we will have them up this afternoon.”

“Good,” Dean replied, “he'll be happy to hear that.” And with that, he waved and headed outside. One more building down. Next up, Nyumba.

Dean walked around the outside perimeter of the building. The entrance to the infirmary was clearly marked, and it was open, so he wandered his way into the small waiting room where a few people sat in chairs. One had a towel clutched to her forearm, and another was looking awfully pale. A third held several wadded up tissues in his hand, and was sniffling loudly. Dean tried to give him a wide berth. He was in and out in less than a minute. He'd fake some kind of illness to get access to the exam rooms if necessary, but for now he'd stick to the easily accessed areas.

Dean decided to try the “walk confidently, as if you belong here” approach to going unnoticed, and went in the front door. The front room had a homey feel to it with wood paneled walls, a large china cabinet against the side wall, and a couple of tables surrounded by chairs. There was a podium toward the back, and a woman who looked to be in her sixties standing behind it. She was preoccupied with rifling through a cabinet on the wall, though, and Dean managed to walk past without attracting her attention.

The rest of Nyumba was also a bust. There was an industrial kitchen, albeit smaller than the one he'd scanned the other day. Several washing machines were churning away in a large laundry room. There were guest rooms, a courtyard, and the back door into the infirmary. And no signs of any monsters anywhere.

Content with his morning's work, Dean went to read for a bit. He'd was almost finished with _Slaughterhouse-Five_. Billy Pilgrim had settled into a nice, normal, apple pie life. Yet nearly twenty years later, he was still haunted by the things he'd seen in the war. Dean swallowed hard. Sam was out of the life, but what if… No, he was strong, he'd be fine. He'd never end up like Billy.

After lunch, he still had a little time before his meeting with Bobby so he knocked out a few more outdoor locations. The two big canopy tents on the grassy lawns in front of Hoeseog had a few groups of people sitting on benches, going over their morning Bible study lessons. There was a wooden building labeled “Picnics” on the map. Dean couldn't find a way inside to figure out what exactly it was for, but the outside was clean. Finally, he checked the two canopy tents in front of Kuća, where people had so foolishly left their bags unattended on Sunday. Then for good measure, he circled back around and checked the bell tower. Nada, zip, zilch.

At this point, Dean wasn't even surprised. So far, this had to be the most uneventful monster hunt he'd ever been on. He'd been exploring the grounds for days, and all he had to show for it was a little EMF in La Cascade, and a touch of sunburn. But he had finally finished scanning every location on the map, and if he wasn't mistaken, Kohvik was open. He was finally going to go have that drink.

Apparently, when the welcome guide said people of legal drinking age could buy _a_ glass of beer at Kohvik, it meant that quite literally. There was an actual one-drink maximum. Still, it was nice to have something to celebrate the end of his tedious task. And anyway, it was still the middle of the afternoon and he wouldn't want to get well and truly drunk before his meeting with Bobby. That was coming up in less than an hour. Perfect timing, really. He might not have much to report, but at least he could report that he didn't have anything to report, save for the weak reading at La Cascade.

Kohvik was pretty crowded, and Dean was getting the impression that this was typical for whenever it was open. With the crowd came plenty of noise, but over the din, Dean could still make out the sound of a guitar. A group of young adults off to the side of the social area was singing along as a guy with floppy blond hair played “Wonderwall” by Oasis. Dean smirked. Some things apparently never changed, even an ocean away. Dean nursed his beer for a while longer, then headed over to Māja.

Bobby led Dean down the right-hand hallway again, but instead of going to the room way at the end of the corridor like last time, he turned and led Dean out the door to the garden.

“It's a little unorthodox,” Bobby said, “but since we'll presumably need access to the resources I've scrounged together, I got permission to use my room as our base of operations. Brother Marcel, our prior, figured it would be more discreet than leaving old occult tomes in a public area, anyway.”

Bobby led Dean through the garden, then down a path that wound around one large building and several smaller ones. They passed a small field where two sheep were grazing, then another brother who was out walking with a Rottweiler. When the dog saw Bobby, it leapt up and rested its head and front paws in his lap. “Hiya Rumsfeld,” Bobby said, petting the dog's head. He scratched the dog behind the ears for a moment, before saying “Okay, back to Frère Jourdain. I've got work to do. Go on, get!” He pointed at the other brother, and Rumsfeld obediently trotted back to his side. Bobby smiled. “I love that dog,” he said.

They went by a long table under an awning, with a few dozen chairs around it. Then, after rounding one more corner, Bobby said “Here we are.” He opened the door to a small stonework building and led the way inside. They passed through a hallway with doors on either side, until Bobby led them into the second room on the left. “Home sweet home.”

The room was, in a word, plain. There were white walls and a half-timbered ceiling. The simple wooden furnishings consisted of a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk, all showing small signs of wear. A mirror graced one wall, with a sink below it. The opposite wall held a single window, with a light green drape pushed to the side. On the wall opposite the bed, there hung a print of the crucifix icon he'd seen in the church. On and around the desk stood piles of old-looking books.

“Uh,” said Bobby, “I guess you can have a seat on the bed. There's no chair to go with that desk, since it goes with me.” Dean did as he said, and Bobby went over to grab some of the books.

“Might as well start with the bad news,” Bobby said. “There was another attack last night. A couple of the sisters came and told me this morning. It sounds like it was pretty much the same as the past attacks. Poor girl was out of her mind with terror.”

“Wait, back up a sec,” Dean said. “St. Chuck's has sisters, too? I thought it was just brothers.”

“It is,” Bobby helpfully clarified. “The sisters belong to a couple of different orders. Catholic, naturally – mixed Catholic/Protestant communities like St. Chuck's are pretty damn rare. The sisters' orders like the work we do here, so some of them come and help run things. The sisters don't join us for prayers, though – they have their own. It's one of the ways they maintain their identities as separate communities.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “That explains the old lady I saw at Nyumba, then.”

“Yep,” said Bobby. “Sounds about right. Nyumba is basically the sisters' domain.” He plopped the books he was carrying down onto the bed, next to Dean. “Sounds like you've had an opportunity to look around a bit, then.”

“Uh, yeah, I did a once-over with my EMF detector, pretty much everywhere on the welcome guide map.”

Bobby nodded. “I knew you'd find something useful to do, without needing me to babysit your every move. I considered trying to line you up with jobs that would get you access to each building, but hitting them all would've taken weeks. Sounds like you've managed to make good progress anyway, though.”

“Speaking of jobs, it's kinda weird, isn't it? How people burn up their time off to come here, pay a 'contribution' even, and then have to work. Some vacation!” said Dean.

“Well the contribution would be a hell of a lot pricier if we had to hire cooks and janitors,” Bobby countered. “But the idea is that we don't have guests – we have people who come to share in our communal life for a while. Besides, working together helps build that sense of community. Talking about trust between peoples is all well and good, but working side-by-side helps make it that much more real.”

“Well you still might have to line up jobs to get me into the places I couldn't get to,” Dean said. “Locked doors and the like, and I heard about some place where families with little kids stay? I didn't find anything like that. And I don't know where the auxiliaires stay, either. Plus of course, the brothers' area, back here.”

“Well the attacks have been limited to the main visitors' areas so far, so I wouldn't worry too much about those other places. You can swing by Alfena, the family area, if you have time – it's less than a ten minute walk up the road. I'll draw you a diagram of some of the places that aren't on the visitors' map.”

Dean groaned internally. Just when he'd thought he was finished, and could move on to something else.

“I'll take care of the brothers' area, if need be,” Bobby continued. “But like I said, our main focus is the places you've already been over.” Bobby grabbed another couple of books from on top of the desk, and brought them over too. “So, find anything interesting in your initial sweep?”

Dean frowned. “Not really. Pretty much nothing. The only sign of anything I found was down by the waterfall at La Cascade. My EMF detector acted up a little.”

To Dean's surprise, Bobby laughed. “I wouldn't worry about that, boy. That's just the electric pump that keeps the water falling!”

Dean blinked at him.

“The waterfall's a fake! If you're there around closing time, you can even see it shut off! There's a real waterfall not too far away, but it's not on our land so we went ahead and made our own.” He laughed again.

“Well then I've got jack-shit to show for the past several days,” Dean said, dejectedly.

“Nonsense!” replied Bobby. “You've been a hunter for how long, and you don't know that ruling things out can be as useful as ruling things in? We've just gotta figure out what type of critters we can eliminate, and which are still in the running.”

Dean suddenly remembered something. “Oh hey, a guy at Caerwys said they'd have some tents up by this afternoon. In case you were worried.”

Bobby shook his head. “Nah, I know Konrad's on top of it. The stereotype about German efficiency? There's more than a kernel of truth to it.”

“So… you work over at Caerwys?” Dean asked, surprised.

“Why wouldn't I? My hands ain't broke! Got real good with 'em, too, working at my old auto salvage yard. And I'm perfectly happy calling the shots while the auxiliaires do all the backbreaking work!” He chuckled.

Dean was a little worried he'd offend Bobby, but another question had been on his mind since he'd first met the man. “Is that why you became a brother? Cause you couldn't hunt anymore? Or, uh, you know? Like, the celibacy thing?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Bobby said with mild irritation, “but I could ‘you know’ just fine, if I chose to. My equipment’s all in good working order, thank you very much. And of course I can hunt! What do you think we’re doing right now, with all these books? True, I can't do as much of the field work anymore, but researching the lore and coming up with cover stories is just as important to a successful hunt. So's connecting hunters with cases in the first place. I could have kept doing all that back home, if I'd wanted to.” He paused for a moment. “But that demon stabbing me in the spine did force me to do some heavy thinking about what I was doing with my life. I'd thought about a religious vocation before, but that's when I realized I couldn't keep denying it. So ironically, it kind of was that demon who turned me into a brother. I bet that would piss him off pretty bad, if he knew!” Bobby's face suddenly became very serious. “Pray you never come face to face with a demon, boy. They're bad, bad fellas.”

Dean didn't doubt it. Demons, that wasn't his normal gig. Demons were big.

“Anyway, enough navel-gazing. Time to hit the books,” Bobby said, thumping the cover of the nearest tome.

Research was never Dean's favorite part of a case, but Bobby was right – it was necessary. Together, they pored over entries for countless supernatural creatures, looking for ones capable of causing nightmares. The list was longer than Dean had expected.

“Ghosts – rule that out, no EMF.” said Dean. “How about a vampire?”

“They can cause nightmares? Huh, go figure. But nope, no reports of bite marks.”

“Djinn.”

“Nah. The victims wake up on their own, and there are no lingering poison effects.”

“Well I don't know, Bobby, you suggest something then!”

“How about a succubus? Or an incubus?”

“I don't think that kind of dream would qualify as a 'nightmare.' And it definitely isn't the kind you'd go tell a monk about.”

“Touché. And we can rule out more general demons while we're at it – you didn't smell sulfur anywhere, did you? Not to mention, a monastery would be a pretty hostile place for a demon, what with the name of God being uttered left and right. Here's a promising looking one, though – a mare.”

“What, a horse is behind it?”

“No ya idjit, not a horse, a mare. From the Old Norse 'mara.' It rides the victim's chest, giving them nightmares and – get this – tangling their hair. It can also ride horses and… trees? Really? Apparently, it'll tangle the horse's mane and the tree's branches.”

“Well, did any of the victims so far have tangled hair?”

“Not that I know of, but I'll ask the sisters.”

“Your mare sounds a lot like the night hag I found. Look,” Dean said, turning the book to show Bobby an illustration of a terrible goblin-like creature sitting on a sleeping woman's chest. “They sit on the victim's chest, paralyzing them and crushing the breath out of them. And according to some stories, they cause terrible dreams while they're at it.”

“Well that sounds an awful lot like our critter, actually. One of the victims had a roommate who witnessed the attack, and said that he was struggling to breathe, and looked like he was trying to move but couldn't. I think you've got it!”

“Only one problem,” Dean said. “It looks like 'night hag' is more like a family of monsters, not one monster in particular. There are reports from all over the world, and the differences sound less like the sort of differences you always find from one witness to the next, and more like they really are different creatures. If we want to figure out how to find and kill this thing, we'll need to narrow it down more.”

Bobby let out a breath, and closed the book on his lap. “Well that's what we'll do, then. But for now, it's almost supper time and I don't know about you, but I'm famished.” He put down his book on the bed and started toward the door.

Dean got up and followed. He was proud to have made their first concrete step, but after hours of research, the text had started swimming before his eyes and he was more than ready to call it quits for the day. Plus, food was always a good excuse to take a break. They passed the long table under the awning, where a few brothers were now setting out plates and silverware. Bobby insisted they take a detour to the brothers' kitchen to pick up a spare water bottle, as he'd been aghast to find out that Dean had been walking around in the hot sun without one. Then they went back along the winding path, and through the garden behind Māja.

Back in Māja's front room, Bobby paused. He gave Dean a gentle squeeze on the arm. “Good work today,” he said. Then he turned and headed back to the brothers' area.

Dean smiled a little, in spite of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * An incubus (male) or succubus (female) is a sex demon, just fyi. In case you weren't sure what Dean meant when he said those dreams aren't exactly nightmares, nor the type you'd tell a monk about ;-)
>   * Pictures:
>     * [_The Nightmare_](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/5/56/John_Henry_Fuseli_-_The_Nightmare.JPG/740px-John_Henry_Fuseli_-_The_Nightmare.JPG) by Henry Fuseli (1781)
>     * [_The Nightmare_](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8d/Johann_Heinrich_F%C3%BCssli_053.jpg/478px-Johann_Heinrich_F%C3%BCssli_053.jpg) by Johann Heinrich Füssli (1790−1791)
> 



	8. Week One, Friday

On Friday, Dean walked up the road in search of Alfena. The walk was scenic. He passed fields dotted with wildflowers, rolling hills, and even a small vineyard (he tried a grape – they were decidedly not ripe yet) along the way. Alfena was about what he'd expected, given what he'd found in the rest of the grounds. The main building was home to numerous guest rooms and meeting rooms. There was an outdoor dining area, with a long table under an equally long canopy tent.

Near the building, several children were playing in a wide open grassy space, accompanied by watchful parents. Several mothers sat in a circle of folding chairs, either holding infants or with strollers in arm's reach.

At the far end of the field, Dean found several meeting tents, one with child-sized benches and a small stage up front, complete with a red curtain. A walking path separated this field from another one, this one full of family-size tents and a few caravans along the far edge. A couple of families sat on the grass near the tents, with one dad playing the guitar and the others (save for a toddler who sat in her mother's lap, sucking her thumb) singing along in a language Dean didn't recognize.

On his way back, Dean passed the women's silence house. Right, Dean remembered, the welcome guide said something about people choosing to spend the week in silence. On Bobby's crude map, he'd written “Do Not Enter” in all capital letters. The silence houses were strictly segregated by sex, he'd explained, and there'd be no cover story good enough to explain why he was there. So Dean just scouted around the fenced exterior before continuing his way back to the main grounds.

Dean looked over Bobby's maps, and realized that he could easily hit the rest of the locations tomorrow. So he might as well take the rest of the day off. He was starting to envy the other visitors, who had schedules full of things to do. But not quite enough to start participating in all those churchy things.

Dean stopped by Māja to leave a message for Bobby, asking when they'd get together again to keep searching the lore, then spent most of the day reading, relaxing, and hanging out at Kohvik and La Cascade. He ran into Charlie at teatime. The move into auxiliaire housing was still two days away, but she could barely contain her excitement.

“I wonder if I'll be in Vierge or Baptême this time,” she said as they sat under the bell tower, drinking their tea and eating their honey bread.

“In what or what, now?” Dean responded.

“Those are the girls' auxiliaire houses – Maison de la Vierge, and Maison du Baptême. I hope I'm in Baptême again, to be honest. There are too many dirty jokes about Vierge.” Dean gave her a confused look, so she explained. “The house names are all in French. Vierge is named after the Virgin Mary – I'll give you three guesses as to which part of that name they used for the house.”

Dean barked a laugh. “I don't think they thought that one through!”

“Either that,” replied Charlie, “or they assumed that all the auxiliaires would be a lot more mature than we really are! It's a lot harder to corrupt 'House of the Baptism,' though I assure you it has been done.”

Dean thought back to the place names Bobby had written on his sketched map. “So the guys have what, House of the Department Store Clothing Line, and House of… what the hell is a 'd'ange' anyway?”

Now it was Charlie's turn to laugh. “'Esprit' is 'Spirit' – as in the Holy Spirit? And 'ange' is 'angel.' Spirit House and Angel House. Much harder to turn into dirty jokes.”

Dean tried for a moment, and then nodded his assent. The best he could come up with was that “spirit” could also mean hard alcohol. “Do you speak French?” he asked. “Or do you just know the names of the houses since you've been here before?” Shit, that was a slip-up. Hopefully, she'd take it to mean “been an auxiliaire before.”

“Yeah, I know French,” she answered, gliding right past Dean's mistake. “I speak German, English, and French. And I can mostly understand Spanish and Italian. Plus I'm learning Swedish.”

“I speak English and, uh, Pig Latin,” replied Dean. He had a passing familiarity with Ancient Greek and Latin, enough to stumble his way through it during research, but he would hardly say he could speak them.

Charlie just shook her head. “Such an American.”

Dean finished Slaughterhouse-Five that evening. He wasn't sure if he loved it or hated it. As a hunter, he could relate to Billy more than most non-veterans ever could. But Billy's fatalism, his outright rejection of free will, raised Dean's hackles. Free will couldn't be just an illusion. Because he had to believe that he could choose what he did with the time he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * I didn't mean to give the girls' auxiliaire houses such awful names, honest. But those were the first ideas that popped into my head, and I thought they were kinda hilarious so I kept them. So really, it's not that the auxiliaires are immature, it's just that I am :-P
>   * Ok, ok, if you can't figure out how Maison du Baptême can be turned into a dirty joke, I'll tell you. What happens when you get baptized? You get wet. Ba dum tss! What? I didn't say that it was a GOOD joke!
>   * So, can you guess which house Dean will be in? D'Esprit or d'Ange? I bet you can! X-D
> 



	9. Week One, Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Pronunciations:
>     * “[Tilleul](https://translate.google.com/#fr/en/Tilleul)” is pronounced TEE-ohl
>   * Photos:
>     * Old Church
>       * [Outside](https://s.iha.com/00140611256/Tramayes-The-romanesque-church-of-taize-.jpeg)
>       * [Inside](http://www.taizebnb.co.uk/images/TaizeOldInt.jpg)
> 


Dean had a nice, lazy morning. After lunch, though, he got back to work. He took off in the opposite direction from yesterday, going down the road past Kuća. First he passed a building Bobby had labeled Wáȟwala Bláye. It was open, but the other locations on the map looked like they'd be quicker to knock off the list so he kept walking.

The first house Dean passed, on his left, was Maison d'Esprit. Like the women's silence house, Bobby had labeled this one “Do Not Enter.” It was one of the men's auxiliaire houses, but Bobby had said that a new face mid-week would attract too much attention. So once again, he only scanned around the outer perimeter.

Past Maison d'Esprit, the road hit a T-intersection. Straight ahead was Maison d'Ange, the other men's auxiliaire house, and a couple doors to the right, the men's silence house. Again, he could only scan as much of the outside as he could reach from the road.

Taking the other direction from the intersection, he passed a large tree (Bobby had included it on his map, calling it a “tilleul tree”) and reached what Bobby had only called “the old church.” Dean entered the gates into the churchyard. The wall surrounding the yard was stone, as was the church itself. The yard was filled with grave markers. Some dated back more than two hundred years, while others were from within the past fifty. In the far right corner, there stood a half dozen simple wooden crosses, with well-tended patches of flowers over the graves. The first grave was separated from the others by a little bit of space, and bore a single name: Raoul, the founder of the Community of St. Charles. A couple of wooden stools stood near this grave, and candles had been placed at its foot. The other crosses bore two, three, or even four names each, other brothers from the community who had died. Dean scanned the churchyard, and was relieved to find no traces of EMF. The dead here, at least, were resting peacefully.

The inside of the church was small, with room for only a few rows of benches. A half dozen or so people were sitting there, praying, so Dean walked softly to avoid disturbing them.

Dean had, as it turned out, already scanned around the women's auxiliaire houses. They were located around the side and back of Nyumba and while they weren't labeled on the map, Dean had unwittingly included them while scanning the barracks in the area.

Bobby had explained that there were also several other houses for special guests (“sometimes for a short while, like some of the folks coming by for the triple anniversary week, and sometimes for a long while, like refugees just getting settled in this country”), as well as the nearby houses of ordinary people who lived in the village, but that it was “beyond my mapping skills to draw the whole damn village” and again, their focus was on the visitors' areas anyway.

Māja had a return message from Bobby some time after lunch. Instead of giving Dean their next research appointment though, it just said that he'd be in touch, and that Dean should have his bags packed and come to Māja at three o'clock on Sunday to meet with Brother Nathanaël and be moved into one of the auxiliaire houses.

So with nothing much else to do, Dean headed back down the road to Wáȟwala Bláye, to finish his scan of the grounds for real this time.

The Wáȟwala Bláye building was old, and made of stone like the old church. Above the door was an attractive, hand-painted sign, with the name of the building written against a black background splotched with different colors of paint. A lawn stretched out to the right, dotted with small canopy tents. A table, set up nearby, was littered with sign-up sheets for art workshops such as Japanese calligraphy, Indonesian batik, and printmaking. An easel next to the table held a poster printed on foam board. Dean scanned it enough to see that Wáȟwala Bláye was a special art exhibit in honor of the community's upcoming triple anniversary, and the name meant “peaceful meadow” in Lakota.

Posted by the front door, there was a list of various demonstrations and performances that would be there throughout the summer. There were painting and weaving demonstrations, music shows, dance shows, even a clowning show (Sammy would just love that one, Dean mused).

Inside, there were displays of woven rugs and woven baskets, with little signs identifying them as from Algeria, Bangladesh, Rwanda, and Indonesia. On one wall, there hung a colorful patchwork quilt with the pieces forming an eight-pointed star motif. Dean immediately recognized this as a Native American quilt, even before checking the sign which identified it as Lakota from South Dakota, USA. On the opposite wall were colorful paintings from Bangladesh. The sign went on to say that they were done by disabled artists who used their feet or mouths to paint. The floor by the far wall was covered by yet more area rugs, and the wall itself was decked with various textile crafts. Signs identified their places of origin as Tanzania, Cambodia, India, Finland, Chile, and England.

Back outside, Dean headed toward the lawn with the canopy tents. A couple on the right were set up for the printmaking and batik workshops. In the latter case, a half dozen young people sat at a table, carefully dripping wax onto pieces of fabric. Larger examples of professionally made batiks hung on the fence behind them. The presence of people meant Dean wasn't able to get as close as he wanted to, so he made do with a cursory once-over.

Before turning to go to the tent on the far side of the lawn, Dean saw that the side of the Wáȟwala Bláye building had an enormous white-on-black painting of Jesus hung on it. Above the portrait were the words “I Trust In You,” and below, “In Te Speravi.” The tent beneath the painting turned out to be the Japanese calligraphy exhibit. The wall behind the tent was covered in examples, and tools were set out to try your hand at copying kanji symbols for simple words like “love,” “peace,” and “faith.” Strings of origami cranes hung from each corner of the tent. One pole had a sign explaining the significance of paper cranes, or “orizuru,” as a symbol of peace and hope.

Finally, Dean was ready to check out the last tent, at the far side of the lawn. As he turned to go there he saw another enormous portrait, hanging on the outside wall of the building next door. It showed an old man in a white robe, sitting in a chair. The painted text read simply “Frère Raoul.” On his way to the tent, Dean noticed brightly colored rocks sitting on top of the low stone wall that made up one of the lawn's boundaries. There had to be a hundred or more, painted with assorted symbols in bold purples, blues, and greens. A sign mid-way across the lawn explained that they were journey stones painted by Aboriginal Australians.

Pieces of painted wood were propped up against the bottom of the wall. The wood itself looked, as best Dean could tell, like it was salvaged from an old fence. Each had a bright background color, and some quote about art. “Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time. – Thomas Merton” read one. Another said “Whenever you are creating beauty around you, you are restoring your own soul. – Alice Walker.”

The last tent's decorations were by far the most unusual. It had walls made from wooden pallets, and hanging on the outside of these walls, there were big, woven… circles. That was the only thing Dean could think to call them. On closer examination, they were woven from scraps of fabric. One was so big that rather than being mounted on a pallet, it took the place of a pallet. On the ground there were brightly painted automobile tires which now served as planters. Even more surprising, there were a couple dozen shoes mounted on the pallet walls, each of which had also been turned into a planter. The entrances to the tent were covered with beaded curtains made from strings of countless metal bottle caps. The last pallet on the left was painted blue and had the word “Up-Cycling” on it. Dean's impression so far was this “Up-Cycling” thing was weird, but kinda cool. But definitely weird.

Dean pushed one of the bottle cap curtains aside. The inside was no less colorful, or chaotic. To one side, another giant woven circle was still in progress, with a gigantic bag of fabric scraps inviting visitors to help construct it. Past that, the side wall was made up of another beaded curtain, this time made from painted CDs. In the middle of the room, another tire-turned-planter hung from the ceiling. It had been cut and painted to resemble a giant bird with a long, colorful tail.

One side of the back wall was covered in pinwheels and other shapes made from soda cans. Below that, a small table held a rather impressive soda can dragon sculpture. Off to the other side, there hung a map of the world made entirely from plastic soda bottle caps. The shapes of the continents were crude and bumpy, but recognizable. On the floor in front of it, there were plastic buckets full to the brim with plastic bottle caps, sorted by color. Two teens sat on the floor (a few pieces of plywood, put down over the grass for apparently this very reason), making their own bottle cap murals.

Dean sighed. Wáȟwala Bláye was clean, along with every other location he'd scanned today. Bobby was right that negative results were useful in their own right, but they weren't nearly as satisfying as positive results. Still, his findings (or lack thereof) didn't preclude the night hag theory, so at least they still had that. He headed back up toward the main part of the visitors' area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * My small group grabbed up the limited slots for the batik workshop, and naturally, I made a Castiel-inspired design :-D The paint dripped a little bit where it wasn't supposed to, but I'm still pretty happy with how it came out!
>   * Photos:
>     * [My batik](http://destielhiseyesopened.tumblr.com/image/124237491391)
>     * [Up-Cycling](https://farm1.static.flickr.com/287/20229910446_6ff09a2e0b_b.jpg) [examples](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ohi3XZpyT0U/VZRImrNSqyI/AAAAAAAAB64/kU47k1E5jC0/s1600/Reifen.jpg) [from](https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/550/19635174543_a748540b87_b.jpg) [Wáȟwala](https://farm1.static.flickr.com/501/20069716109_c9a560ed22_b.jpg) [Bláye](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a6Znquk-I7s/VZRIaQQ9QvI/AAAAAAAAB6o/d4mpsTKdZL4/s1600/wanagi%2Btacanku.jpg)
> 



	10. Week One, Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Dean's about to move into the auxiliaire house, so starting in this chapter, there will be a shit-ton of names to remember. But the good news is, you don't actually have to! I needed a list to keep track of everyone, so I certainly don't expect readers to memorize them all! So for realsies, don't stress over it. As the plot develops, it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out who's actually important, and who's just kinda doing their own thing in the background.
>   * Toshi is named after Sensei Matsushita Toshi from [_The Retraining of Dean Winchester_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108581/chapters/2231285) by deanwithwings. It's not meant to be the same character or anything, just a little homage to one of my all-time favorite fics. If you like [A/B/O dynamics](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Alpha/Beta/Omega), check it out!
> 


Dean and Charlie had been people-watching as folks from the past week left and new folks started to arrive. Since Charlie had to get to Nyumba by the same time he had to get to Māja, though, and Nyumba was a longer walk away, Dean ended up being a little early. As he entered the front door with his packed suitcase, the auxiliaire manning the podium looked at him and pointed back toward the door.

“Please leave your bags outside,” he said. Dean hesitated. “The room gets too crowded when people bring in their bags,” the auxiliaire continued. “They will be safe outside.” Reluctantly, Dean went back outside and did as he'd been told. There were several other suitcases just outside the building, so Dean stashed his amongst them. Safety in numbers, he figured. He really didn't want to leave his suitcase or backpack unattended, but there didn't seem to be any way around it this time.

Back inside, Dean sat at the table and flipped through an English-language newspaper. Politicians were being douchebags – what else was new. There were a few other boys hanging around. Dean wondered if they were also there to become auxiliaires.

After several minutes of waiting, a brother – Brother Nathanaël, presumably – appeared. “Any of you young men who are here as new auxiliaires, please follow me,” he said with an accent Dean couldn't quite place, waving his arm to beckon them. In total, four other guys got up and went with Dean. Brother Nathanaël led them all the way down the right-hand hallway to the room at the end, the same room where Dean had first spoken with Bobby.

“So, welcome!” Brother Nathanaël started. “We are so happy to have you here! Now, have any of you been auxiliaires before?” Two hands went up. “Excellent, so some new, some returning. This will be a bit of a review for you two, eh? First though, why don't we introduce ourselves. I am Brother Nathanaël. And you?” He turned to the young man on his right.

They all went around and said their names and where they were from. There was Adam from Sweden, Toshi from Japan, Vitalik from Ukraine, and Dino from Italy. Dean realized there would be even more names to remember once he got to whichever house he was assigned to, and cringed inwardly. Usually, he could get away with memorizing only two or three names per hunt.

“Okay,” Brother Nathanaël continued. “Let's take care of business first, just to get that out of the way.” He opened a folder on the table in front of him, and pulled out five copies of some kind of form. Then he pulled a handful of pens from a tote bag, and passed them around.

The form was simple enough. Name, today's date, age, address, phone number, country of origin, languages spoken, emergency contact info, and whether or not you had a valid driver's license. Dean started writing his name. He got as far as “Dean W” before he remembered that he was “Dean Waters” here, not Dean Winchester. But the first letter was the same anyway, so no harm done. He paused at the last question. Was an American driver's license valid in France? He honestly had no clue, but he checked “Yes” anyway.

Brother Nathanaël gathered up the forms again and put them away in his bag. “So again, welcome!” he began. “Auxiliaires are an important part of the larger St. Charles community.”

Dean zoned out a bit during the welcome speech. It was mostly what Bobby had explained to him (and been a lot more concise about), as well as a few things he'd learned from Charlie or gleaned during his exploration of the grounds. The rest was just “Blah blah blah, your house is your home for your stay here, where you will sleep, eat, take your tea, socialize in the common room, and spend much of your free time.” and “Blah blah, only residents of each house are permitted in its boundaries.”

Now that he was actually about to join the auxiliaires, Dean had a moderate amount of a “what have I gotten myself into” sort of feeling. Living in a tent, there had been a certain degree of anonymity. Bobby and Charlie were the only ones who knew his name. But now, he was going to be in close quarters with god knows how many other guys, and he'd have to pretend to be as religiously-minded as they were. This would really test his ability to keep up a cover story. Well, at least moving into a real house meant there would be air conditioning.

Brother Nathanaël finished speaking, and rose from the table. Dean and the other boys followed suit, and followed him out of the room and back down the hallway. Once outside, they all grabbed their suitcases. So that's who else had left their bags right outside Māja, Dean realized. And sure enough, his bags were still there, untouched. Brother Nathanaël then led them down the road. They walked past Wáȟwala Bláye, past Maison d'Esprit, past the big tilleul tree and the old church. Brother Nathanaël finally opened up the gate to Maison d'Ange and led them down a concrete staircase, flanked by flower beds, which went past the house itself and deposited them at the edge of a courtyard behind it, laid with coarse gravel. Dean heard a familiar sequence of notes coming from somewhere. He perked up at the sound – it was, unmistakably, a guitar playing the opening to “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC.

Brother Nathanaël had them put their bags down again, against the side of the house. He led them inside and announced “This is your common room.” It was nothing like Dean had expected. The room felt more like a kitchen than the common rooms he'd seen in dormitories when he'd taken Sam on college visits. The floor was red tile, and there were no couches or upholstered furniture of any kind. There was also, to Dean's dismay, no air conditioning.

Turning to his left, Dean saw an oval table surrounded by two benches and several chairs, which dominated the room. The table had a vinyl, floral-print tablecloth on it, and on top of that were baskets filled with fruit, cookies, and sliced baguette. A few guys sat at the table playing cards. In a chair pushed back from the table sat Dean's mystery musician – a good-looking guy with a guitar across his lap. He had dark skin, a goatee, and a shaved head.

An armoire stood against the far wall. To the left, next to the door, stood a bookcase. On the wall in front of the door, there was a whiteboard covered in writing. In one corner of the board was written a mailing address for Maison d'Ange. Right in the middle was a “shopping list,” listing blueberry jam, shampoo, and oats, among other items. To the side of that was the word “Haircuts” with several names below it. And on the other side, stuck on with magnets, were several pieces of paper with writing that Dean couldn't make out from where he was.

Dean turned back, and looked to his right now. There was a kitchen counter with plates sitting in a drying rack and bowls stacked up in a pyramid. In the middle of the counter was a kitchen sink, and to its right stood a coffee pot, an electric kettle, and something resembling a toaster with three very wide slots. Above the counter were cupboards, and below it were drawers and cabinets. Under the counter, in the corner, stood a mini refrigerator the same size he’d expect to find in a college dorm. Dean would be sure to check that out later. Notably, the kitchen had no oven, stove, or even microwave. That was puzzling, but Dean had to trust that the explanation would be revealed in time.

Brother Nathanaël crossed the room and led them through a doorway. Just past the doorway there was a closet door. “In here are brooms, mops, and other cleaning supplies,” he said. “Whoever is assigned to be housekeeper for the week is officially in charge of cleaning the common areas, but everyone is expected to help out. The housekeeper will make a chore list, and you are responsible for your own rooms as well.”

He moved on. To the left was a short corridor lined with three close-together doors on each side. To the right was a staircase leading up. And straight ahead was another room. “You will find the toilets and showers here,” said Brother Nathanaël, pointing down the short corridor with the doors. “And here,” he said, stepping aside so everyone could see through the doorway, “is the laundry room.” Several laundry baskets rested on the floor, a couple of them containing towels and sheets. A washing machine stood next to a large sink.

“Where's the dryer?” Dean asked.

Dino looked at him as if he'd said something amusing, while Toshi looked mildly confused.

“There are clothes lines outside in the garden,” Brother Nathanaël answered. “I will show you all after we finish in here.”

Dean flushed a little. Why should he be embarrassed, though? It wasn't his fault that these Europeans did things weird.

Brother Nathanaël then led them toward the staircase, but stopped just before it and opened up a closet Dean hadn't noticed before. “Here is where you can find things like shampoo and toothpaste,” Brother Nathanaël said. “As well as towels,” he continued, pulling one down from a shelf to show them, “and clean sheets for your beds, which you should change often.” He finished the statement with a bemused smile, apparently well aware of young men's reputation for slovenliness. “And down here are toilet paper and laundry soap. The housekeeper should keep those well-stocked, but now you all know just in case some week he is lazy.”

Instead of leading them upstairs, Brother Nathanaël turned around and led them back through the common room and out to the courtyard. To the left and the right, the courtyard was bordered by the walls of the buildings on either side of Maison d'Ange. Behind, where the courtyard wasn't bordered by the house itself, there stood a five-foot high stone wall with a doorway back out to the road (which was on a hill, such that a staircase was not necessary on this side). In the corner where the house met the wall, there was a small fountain flowing gently into a stone trough. An alcove cut into the wall of the building housed a giant metal sink. In front of Dean, opposite the house, there stood another stone wall, short enough that one of Dean's new housemates was perched on top of it, reading. Beyond the wall was a beautiful view of rolling fields, bordered by trees and dotted with houses.

In the far left corner there was a section of the courtyard that was paved with concrete, rather than covered in gravel. The stone wall rose up at least ten feet here, right up to the roof that extended over the paved area. Under the roof stood six dining tables in a U shape, with benches lining the inside and outside of the formation. This place really had a thing for eating outside, Dean thought. An additional table stood a little ways away, with no benches around it.

Brother Nathanaël led them to a door in the wall behind the dining area. Through the door, it was several steps down into the garden. The short wall, which had looked about three feet tall from the courtyard, had to be six feet tall down here.

To the left was another concrete slab, in which were implanted the metal support poles for a huge clothes drying rack. Clothing hung clothes-pinned to a few of the lines, mostly dry from the look of it. “This,” said Brother Nathanaël, as if an explanation was necessary, “is where you will dry your clothes.” He nodded at Dean, who grit his teeth to keep himself from flushing again.

To the right was a garden, with patches of greenery and flowers surrounded by simple dirt paths, and a stone bench in the center. Brother Nathanaël didn't seem to think it was necessary to explain what a garden was, so he simply led them back up to the courtyard.

“Okay, now for room assignments,” he said, rummaging through the papers in his folder. He found the one he was looking for, and pulled it out. “Adam and Toshi, you will be in room two. Vitalik, room three. Dean, you're in room five. And Dino, you'll be in room seven. Dino, your room is in Maison d'Ange II, so I'll show you where that is. The rest of you, feel free to bring your suitcases upstairs to your rooms and get settled. Supper is at six o'clock today.”

Dean went with the rest to where they'd left their bags, but stayed outside for an extra moment to see where Brother Nathanaël was taking Dino. Bobby hadn't mentioned anything about a “Maison d'Ange II.” It turned out, though, that Maison d'Ange II was just the house right next to the main Maison d'Ange building. Its door opened up onto the stairway they'd initially climbed down, which led from the street to the courtyard. Curiosity satisfied for now, Dean grabbed his bags and headed inside to find room five.

Rooms one, two, and three were on the second floor of the house. (Dean wondered if Maison d’Esprit had bedrooms on the first floor. Bobby had to have lived somewhere, back when he was an auxiliaire.) There were also a few unmarked doors, so Dean poked his nose in to see what they were. There was one full bathroom, two rooms with just sinks and mirrors (and assorted toiletries strewn about), and a broom closet. On the hallway windowsill there sat a landline telephone which looked a few decades old. Dean headed up the next flight of stairs and found a much smaller landing with two doors. The door to the left was room four. To the right was room five. Bingo. Dean opened the door and headed inside.

The room had a simple wooden floor and white walls. The building had clearly been renovated to turn it into auxiliaire housing, but little things revealed its age, from the weathering on the wood in the half-timbered ceiling, to the old-fashioned keyholes in the bedroom doors. It was clear that Dean's room used to be part of an attic, because the ceiling slanted downward over half the room. Against the shorter wall there was a desk with a chair and a small print of a religious icon standing on the desk. Against the taller wall there was a bunk bed, but the room held no signs of a roommate. Each bed had a folded up blanket and a pillow, but no sheets. He'd have to go back downstairs to the hall closet to grab some. Near the foot of the bed stood a wardrobe. Dean figured that if he was going to be here for a while, he might as well unpack instead of living out of his suitcase the whole time. He'd done that plenty, sure, but he secretly relished when he had the opportunity to settle into a place – even if it was just a cheap motel room – and live a little bit more like a normal person.

Dean plopped his suitcase onto the bed. The bedsprings groaned loudly. Well, that was going to make for fun nights. He put his clothes in the wardrobe, and tossed his toiletries bag onto the bed so he could bring it to the bathroom later. He left _Slaughterhouse-Five_ in his bag, having already finished it, but took out _Cat's Cradle_ – the other Vonnegut book he'd brought along – and left it on the desk for whenever he had some time to kill. The knives stayed hidden away in his backpack, though, and the backpack stayed just barely under the bed where he could easily grab it.

Done with unpacking, Dean decided to head downstairs and see if anything was going on. As he left his room, he saw that the door across the short hallway – the door to room four – was ajar. He took a quick peek in before heading down the stairs. The room looked much like a mirror image of his own, just more lived in. Like his own room, though, the upper bunk of the bed remained bare. A dark-haired boy in a blue, white, and purple striped t-shirt sat at the desk, facing away from him. Dean took a step back and headed down the stairs before he could be discovered spying, like some kind of creeper. On the way down the stairs, he did some quick mental math. If there were two buildings, five bedrooms per building (assuming Maison d'Ange II was more or less the same as Maison d'Ange I), and a bunk bed in each, that meant Maison d'Ange could sleep twenty guys altogether. More, if any of the rooms were triples. Sure enough, when Dean got down to the second floor landing, the door to room three was open and he could see a larger room with a bunk bed and an additional single. Vitalik had his suitcase on the single bed, and was unpacking.

Down in the common room, the guitar dude was now strumming “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin. Yeah, Dean just might fit in here after all. Adam had also come back downstairs, and was being dealt into the card game at the table.

Dean took a closer look at the papers stuck to the whiteboard. One long sheet (actually two sheets taped together) was a computer printout featuring a list of names followed by job assignments for the week, and different assignments for Sunday. His name and the names of the other new arrivals weren't on it. The next sheet was a list of room assignments. It confirmed that each building had two triples and three doubles, making twenty-four beds total. The names here were written in pencil, and some of the spots had clearly been erased and re-used a number of times. It wouldn't be long until an eraser ripped right through the paper. The last two papers were chore sign-up lists. One was labeled “Cleaning” and had chores like cleaning the toilets and sweeping the floors. The other was labeled “Meals” and had spots for setting the table, washing the dishes, or fetching supper on a given day of the week. Names on these two sheets were written in by hand.

“Just barely settled in, and already interested in chores!” teased one of the guys at the table.

“Nah, I'm just making sure you're keeping up with yours,” Dean shot back. He skimmed his fingers along the rows of names. “Who were you, again?”

“Ash,” he said, extending his hand. “From the Netherlands.”

Dean shook his hand. “I, uh, I dig the haircut,” he said.

“All business up front, party in the back,” Ash replied, dramatically flipping his mullet.

Dean took a seat at the table. The guy playing as dealer held up the deck of cards and gave him a questioning look.

“Sure,” said Dean. “Deal me in. What are we playing?”

“Nothing fancy, just Crazy Eights. You know how to play?”

Dean smiled softly to himself. He and Sam had played Crazy Eights together in motel rooms across the country from the time Sammy was old enough to count. It was no poker, but it had gotten them through countless boring evenings when Dad was out working a case. “Yeah,” he said, “I can play Crazy Eights.”

Guys trickled in over the next couple of hours as they came back from their various work assignments. Conversely, the guitar dude and one of the card players left after a while to tend to other duties. Two of the other new arrivals, Dino and Adam, came and joined the game.

“I put down another five!” Dino exclaimed, unnecessarily narrating his action.

Adam followed Dino's five of spades with a three of spades.

“What's that writing on your arm?” Dean asked Adam, nodding at the black text tattooed on his forearm. Dean recognized the alphabets as Greek and Hebrew, but hadn't gotten a good enough look to see what they said.

“It's the name of God in each of the major monotheistic faiths,” Adam explained. “'Christos' in Greek, 'Adonai' in Hebrew,” he pointed to each part of the tattoo in turn. “And 'Allah' in Arabic.” Adam rotated his arm to show the third, previously hidden bit of text.

“Very cool. No Zoroaster, though?” Dean teased.

“Zoroaster is a prophet, not a god,” countered Adam.

“'Ahura Mazda' is their name for God,” said a guy coming in the door.

“Of course Alfie knows that,” said one of the other card players. Alfie's back was turned as he fiddled with the electric kettle on the counter, but the tips of his ears turned a little pink.

“Is that another American I hear?” Dean said, looking at Alfie.

“Yessir!” he replied, grabbing a teabag from a drawer. “I'm from Iowa – just outside Dubuque. How about you?”

“All over really. I grew up traveling around a lot. Visited all of the lower forty-eight before I learned to shave.”

Alfie grabbed a bowl and poured hot water into it from the kettle. “Military brat?” he asked.

“Eh, something like that.”

Around six, people started to migrate outside to the dining area. At some point over the last few hours, the table had been set with plates, bowls, napkins, and – just as Charlie had promised – a full complement of forks, spoons, and knives. A few minutes later, Ash and another guy arrived through the doorway in the stone wall separating the courtyard from the street. They lugged with them a plastic tub and several cardboard boxes. These were plunked onto the spare table, where a stream of guys were now bringing serving bowls and spoons and wicker baskets. The pasta salad, bread, herbed cheese, pears, and butterscotch pudding were quickly transferred to serving containers and brought to the dining tables. Someone Dean hadn't met yet brought out five plastic pitchers and filled them with water at the outdoor sink.

Dean served himself and flagged down the cruet of olive oil that was going around. Charlie was right – it cut the pasta's vinegary dressing and noticeably improved the flavor. Best of all, though, he could serve himself a proper portion, instead of the adequate, but not at all generous, portions he'd been given during his field week.

Other guys trickled in and helped themselves to some food. Dean's across-the-hall neighbor came down not long after the food had been served, and guitar dude returned a little while later. They were both good-looking men, though Dean's eye lingered a little bit longer on neighbor guy. Now that Dean could see his face, he noticed that behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, he had the most striking blue eyes that Dean had ever seen. They matched the knotted blue cord that he had wrapped around his left wrist like a bracelet. Dean forced himself to look away before he could be caught staring. Picking up guys or girls – or sometimes both – was an occasional perk when doing a job, but he was at a monastery for chrissake. This was the last place he should expect to find a hook-up. Hell, half of these good little Christian boys were probably saving themselves for marriage.

Dean saw guys dumping their pear cores and cheese wrappers into a large trash can by the edge of the dining area, and bringing their plates over to the outdoor sink, so he followed suit. He didn't envy the poor saps who had to wash all this stuff. There was a window in the sink alcove's wall, which was open and faced directly into the indoor kitchen area above the sink in there. Guys were stacking their drinking bowls up on the small window's large ledge, so again, Dean did likewise.

Back in the common room, people were relaxing again. A few of them had taken over the deck of cards, and were playing Egyptian Ratscrew. Ash and another boy were trying to find dirty words in a French–English dictionary from the bookcase. Someone was at the sink, getting a head-start on washing the bowls.

Dean sidled up to Ash and his friend. “How do you say 'fellatio'?” he said with a shit-eating grin.

Ash's friend flipped through the dictionary's pages for a moment, then proudly announced, “'Fellation'!”

“Well. That's mildly disappointing,” said Dean.

“Yeah, cognates will do that,” Ash responded. Dean gave him a quizzical look. “Cognates,” Ash explained. “Words that share the same root.” Dean shrugged. You learn something new every day.


	11. Week Two, Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Tui Amoris Ignem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkfSQO9aQG8)
>       * Full translation: “Come Holy Spirit, kindle the fire of your love.”
>   * Pronunciations:
>     * Most of the new names should be easy enough to pronounce, but just so you know, [Juraj](https://translate.google.com/#hr/en/Juraj) is pronounced “YOO-rye,” [Eliasz](https://translate.google.com/#pl/en/Eliasz) is “EL-yash,” and [Gazsi](https://translate.google.com/#hu/en/Gazsi) is “GAW-zhi.”
>     * For the French prayer after lunch (or pretty much anything in this fic, really), you can always plug it into [Google Translate](https://translate.google.com) to hear the correct pronunciation
> 


Coffee. Glorious coffee. Dean inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma before taking his first sip. His moment was interrupted by a bread basket knocking into his elbow. He tore off a decent chunk from one of the baguettes, and passed the basket on. Breakfast was still bread with butter and chocolate sticks or jam, but as with supper the night before, Dean had more control over his portion size. He decided to stick with chocolate sticks for today.

Once everyone was settled with their food and drink, Brother Nathanaël stood up from his seat at the center of the table and produced a few sheets of paper from a folder.

“Good morning everyone,” he said. “Welcome to a new work week. I will pass around the sign-up sheets for this week's chores. And for our newest gentlemen, please see me right after breakfast for your work assignments.” He sat back down, and passed one sign-up sheet in each direction.

Dean paused when the “Meals” sign-up sheet reached him. He didn't particularly want to do extra work while he was here, but apparently his cover-story required it. He grudgingly signed himself up for a few dishwashing and table-setting shifts. When the “Cleaning” sheet came around, he figured that sweeping floors was less odious than cleaning toilets, at least.

After bussing his dishes, Dean found Brother Nathanaël. He was just finishing up with Vitalik, and then turned to Dean. “Ah, let's see what we have for you.” He pulled out another sheet of paper. “This week, in the mornings you are on rubbish collection. You will have to go to Caerwys. Do you know where that is?”

Dean nodded, a bit dumbstruck. He was here to hunt. They expected him to do garbage duty, too? But he couldn't say anything right now – he didn't know if Brother Nathanaël was in on the whole monster thing. The easiest thing to do would be to play along for today, and talk to Bobby as soon as possible.

“And in the afternoons,” Brother Nathanaël continued, “you will be helping Brother Robert with a special project. You can meet him in Māja at 3pm, so he can explain what you'll be working on.”

That was more like it.

“I'll post the new work assignments with the rest of them on the whiteboard in your common room, so you can refer back if you need to.”

Adam and Toshi had shown up, so Brother Nathanaël turned his attention to them. “You have about fifteen minutes to get to Caerwys,” he said over his shoulder to Dean. “So you'd best leave soon!”

Dean arrived at Caerwys. The flower garden out front struck him as especially odd now that he knew this was garbage duty central, but it was what it was. He went in the front door and was again struck by how well-organized the simple, concrete-walled building was. There was an air of clutter, but closer inspection showed that everything was actually organized rather efficiently. A shelf clearly labeled “Lightbulbs” was stacked with boxes of the same. The storage drawers were also labeled, and though the writing was a bit scribbly on some of them, the few drawers Dean opened out of curiosity did indeed contain the cotter pins, spark plugs, and cylinder fuses the labels said they would. The tools hanging on the wall each had an outline showing which hook went with which tool. There was even – frickin sweet! – a chainsaw. Never know when one of those might come in handy!

Several ladders were leaned against the wall in one corner The only thing that looked out of place was a pile of long canvas bags in another corner. Based on big black letters written in marker on one of the bags, they used to hold tents. There clearly weren't enough bags for all of the tents that were up, though, so this must just be the bags from the most recent batch, which would soon be taken back to wherever the tents were stored during the off-season.

Dean didn't see anyone in the main room, but he heard sound coming from the courtyard in the back. He headed there, and saw a young man he recognized from Maison d'Ange sitting on a bench on the wooden deck over to the right side of the privacy fence-enclosed space. The man was portly, with a prematurely receding hairline. What hair he did have was pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hey,” Dean said, extending his hand. “So we're pulling garbage duty, eh?”

The man paused, before slowly taking Dean's hand, as if with great reluctance. “The job is called 'Rubbish Collection,'” he said.

It was Dean's turn to pause. “…right.” He shook the man's hand quickly and took his hand back. He took a seat on the bench, several feet away.

“Are you here with a group?” asked the man.

“Um, no. Do you mean here, St. Chuck's? Or here, here? But either way, no.”

“I mean here, here, of course.” He rolled his eyes. “Visitors are supposed to meet with Björn on their first day, not come back here on their own.”

“Oh,” said Dean, realization dawning. “No, I'm not a visitor, I'm an auxiliaire like you. We're in the same house.”

“You must be one of the new boys this week, then,” said the man. “You should have said so.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, but opted not to get into it. “So, what exactly do we do here?” he said instead.

The man looked at him as if he was an idiot. “We collect rubbish.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. I meant, how do we go about it?”

“We get in the truck, drive around collecting rubbish, and bring it to the compactor,” he said, still giving Dean a patronizing look.

Jesus fucking Christ, this was like pulling teeth. Dean decided it would be easier to just wait and see.

It wasn't a long wait. Soon, a tall blond man came through the door in the privacy fence, leading a dozen or so teenagers. He had a seat on one of the benches, and gestured for them to do likewise. “Welcome to Caerwys, and to Rubbish Collection,” he began. “I'm Björn, and these are Zachariah and– sorry, I haven't gotten your name yet,” he said, turning to Dean.

“Dean,” he said, waving at the group.

“Your jobs,” Björn continued, addressing the group of teens again, “will be to consolidate rubbish from the bins all over St. Chuck's, as well as recycling. It's not a glamorous job, but when you see how much rubbish St. Chuck's generates in a day, you'll know what an important job it is.”

Björn pulled a stack of papers from a crate under the bench, and passed them around. Dean took one as the stack passed by. It was the same map as in the welcome guide, but with black dots scattered throughout.

“Each small dot is a rubbish bin,” Björn said. “Consolidate as much rubbish as you can into one bag, then tie a knot and leave it at the nearest pick-up spot. Each large dot is a pick-up spot, where Zachariah and Dean will come by in the truck to collect all the bags. You'll go in groups of two, and divide the map up between yourselves. So pair up and get your leather aprons and gloves from the closet. Also, grab a roll of rubbish bags and a few recycling bags from under the bench.”

While the visitors grabbed their gear from the closet at the edge of the deck, Björn turned back to Dean. “Did you just become an auxiliaire?”

“Yeah, actually. Moved into Maison d'Ange yesterday.”

“Okay, that's why you weren't at last night's planning meeting. Don't worry about it, Zachariah has done this before and you'll be working with him. It's not difficult.” He clapped Dean on the knee, then stood up and headed into the building.

“Well? Go on, put on an apron,” said Zachariah.

“Geez,” Dean muttered under his breath. “Give me a sec to stand up first, why dontcha.”

“I'm driving,” Dean said, as he and Zachariah walked to the truck. He held his hand out for the key Björn had given them.

“No, you're not,” said Zachariah. “You haven't taken the driving test.”

“The what now?”

“You can't drive Caerwys vehicles unless you pass the Caerwys driving test,” Zachariah said. “They never made me take it, actually. But they know me, because I've been here so many times before.”

Dean grumbled. He hated riding in the passenger seat. If he got stuck doing this all week, he was definitely going to take that damn driving test. What a joke – in his lifetime, he'd probably driven twice as much as this jagoff, if not more. Driving test, indeed.

They pulled out onto the main road and turned left. Zachariah drove past the tents and kept going, past the fields, past the vineyard. Dean noticed, to his dismay, that the truck was a stick shift. Crap. He knew how to drive a stick in theory, but had only actually driven one twice and that was years ago. He might struggle a little with the driving test, after all.

They arrived at Alfena, where a pile of trash bags lay by the road. Zachariah hopped out. “Throw those bags into the back,” he said over his shoulder, as he headed toward a wooden shed Dean hadn't noticed when he'd come up here before.

Dean pulled on his gloves and went to grab the first bag. The smell of day-old garbage hit his nostrils and made him cringe. He hurled the bag into the cage on the back of the truck, praying that it didn't split open. As he carried the second and third bags to the truck, Zachariah emerged again from the shed, carrying an armful of flattened cardboard boxes and a blue bag that clinked with recyclables. Dean tossed the trash bags toward the front of the truck bed. Zachariah placed his load into the back of the bed and went back into the truck cabin, leaving Dean to collect the last couple of trash bags.

Back in the truck, they turned around and headed back, stopping at the women's silence house. A couple of trash bags were waiting for them, just outside the fence gate. Dean hopped out, grabbed the bags, and tossed them into the truck. They kept driving.

Upon returning to the main grounds, they drove up and down the wider paths between tents, stopping occasionally for Dean to hop out and load trash bags into the truck.

“Remember to keep the recycling in the back,” Zachariah yelled out the window as Dean picked up a blue bag.

“How 'bout you come out and load them in yourself?” Dean fired back.

“Because I'm the driver,” said Zachariah. Dean couldn't see his face, but he imagined there was a smug grin on it.

They finished the tent area, then continued down the road, stopping a couple times. Then they curved around to pick up the bags near Kohvik. Around the back of Kohvik, Zachariah got out and motioned for Dean to help load up a pile of cardboard and large, sorted tubs of glass bottles, plastic bottles, and metal cans. Then they drove back around and turned just past Kohvik, then drove past the edge of the map to a place where Björn and the teenagers were waiting for them. Zachariah got out of the truck and Dean followed.

“Give them the recycling,” Zachariah said as he grabbed the accumulated cardboard. Dean unloaded the tubs and blue recycling bags. They were at the top of a hill that had a sudden, cliff-like drop-off. At the bottom of the drop-off there stood four giant metal cargo containers, one each for plastic, metal, glass, or cardboard. They contained an impressive quantity of soda bottles, giant tomato sauce cans, wine bottles, and flattened boxes, respectively. On top of the hill, just before the drop-off, stood a metal sorting table with a raised rim all the way around to prevent bottles and cans from rolling off. A couple of the teens started untying the bags of recyclables, dumping their contents onto the table, and throwing each item into the appropriate cargo container. Zachariah walked back from the cardboard container and got back into the truck. Without waiting for Dean, he drove down the sloped part of the hill, to the bottom. Dean and the rest of the teens followed.

Zachariah brought the truck to a stop next to a big, rectangular, metal apparatus, roughly the same size as the cargo containers. He got out and unlatched the gate to the back of the truck's cage. When Dean and the teenagers caught up with him, he picked up a garbage bag and handed it to the first teenager who reached the truck. The teen hesitated, not entirely sure what she was supposed to do with it. Zachariah rolled his eyes and said, impatiently, “Pass it down the line and into the compactor!”

“You could've mentioned that before sticking a bag of trash into her hands,” Dean said.

“It's pretty obvious,” Zachariah said, glaring. “What else would she do with it?” Dean opened his mouth to respond, but lost his train of thought when the bag was unceremoniously shoved into his chest. He passed it down the line that had quickly formed between the truck and the compactor.

They made quick work of the mountain of garbage bags in the truck. Soon, there was a mountain of garbage bags sticking out of the compactor. Zachariah climbed down from the truck and pressed a couple of buttons on the side of the compactor. It buzzed to life, and the mountain of garbage started to sink down into the machine.

Zachariah hopped back into the truck and waved through the open window for Dean to join him. Dean gritted his teeth and got back into the passenger side. They kept driving down the road, toward the auxiliaire houses. The old church and Maison d'Esprit had garbage bags out front, and Maison d'Ange and the men's silence house had stacks of flattened cardboard.

After that, they turned around and drove back up the road, from Kuća all the way around the barracks, through the over-thirty area, and up to the upper gate at La Cascade, stopping periodically to pick up trash bags. On the way, they pulled around to the back of the big kitchen to a large shed full of garbage and recyclables, and stopped by Nyumba's smaller shed as well. Zachariah helped out at these locations, but everywhere else he stayed in the truck. Finally, they went back to the sorting and compacting area and repeated the same process as before.

After the truck bed was emptied, Zachariah dragged over a hose that had been coiled around a water spigot to the side of, and slightly behind, the compactor. He climbed back up into the truck bed, and started spraying it down from the front to the back, rinsing away the gross mixture of liquids that had seeped out of the many trash bags. He turned to Dean while he worked. “Don't just stand there, go get the brushes.”

Dean looked around and saw, leaning against the nearest cargo container, a collection of brushes and squeegees on long, broom-like handles. He grabbed the brushes and headed back to the truck. Björn came over and took the second brush. Together, he and Dean hopped into the wetted truck bed and scrubbed it down. Zachariah returned with the squeegees and, handing one to Dean, started squeegeeing the remaining water out of the truck. Dean handed his brush to Björn and did likewise. When they were done, Zachariah wordlessly shoved his squeegee into Dean's hand and went around to get back into the driver's seat. Dean put the squeegees back where he'd found them, and climbed back into the passenger seat.

They drove back to Caerwys in silence, where Zachariah parked the truck back in its spot. Back in the courtyard, there was a plastic crate and a large pitcher waiting for them on one of the benches. Before Dean so much as got his apron off, though, Zachariah grabbed his arm and spun Dean to face him.

“Don't you ever undermine me in front of field people! You have a problem with me, you talk to me alone,” he said through gritted teeth.

Dean wrenched his arm away. It took all of his self control to stop himself from decking Zachariah right in the face. “Maybe don't be a dick to a kid on her first day, then,” he replied.

Zachariah just snarled, and threw his apron back into the closet.

With good timing, Björn and the teenagers appeared at the door in the privacy fence and joined them in the courtyard. They also returned their aprons and gloves to the closet, while Zachariah went to wash his hands at one of the outdoor sinks against the paint-splattered wall to the left of the courtyard. Dean would have preferred a shower, but washing his hands would have to suffice for now.

Zachariah poured himself a bowl of tea from the pitcher and took a packet of speculaas cookies from the crate. When Björn finished washing his hands, he started pouring several bowls of tea and handing them to Dean and the teenagers as they each returned from the sinks. Dean followed suit, grabbing a handful of cookies and handing them out, too.

The teenagers chatted amongst themselves as they ate their snack. Somehow, a few hours of collecting garbage hadn't dampened their spirits. Dean wished he could say the same thing. Over the years, he'd been sprayed with all manner of monster guts, but this was still one of the grossest jobs he'd ever pulled. The stink of garbage was still in his nostrils, even as he drank his tea. He checked his watch – it looked like he'd have time to shower before lunch, at least.

After everyone had finished their snack, Björn gathered up the used bowls and returned them to the crate. “I'll help you carry these back to the kitchen,” he said to Zachariah. Turning to Dean, he said “Can you bring the recycling tubs back to Kohvik?”

“Can do,” said Dean, standing up. He headed back out to the truck and grabbed the large, now empty tubs from the back. He carried them back down to Kohvik and dropped them off at the back door. Then he headed back to Maison d'Ange for a much needed shower.

Dean took a long, hot shower while the auxiliaires were at midday prayers. He had to lather up three times before he was satisfied that the stink of garbage was off him. Dean was grateful to finally have a normal shower again, with adjustable temperature and water that stayed on for longer than thirty seconds at a time. He stood under the spray and just let the water flow over his body for a while before getting out. He felt thoroughly refreshed from the morning's grodiness.

After toweling himself dry and getting dressed in fresh clothes, Dean grabbed the clothes he had been wearing for garbage duty, as well as all the clothes he'd worn last week, and brought them downstairs. Thank god he had access to a washing machine, he thought, because he was going to be doing a lot of laundry this week.

While he was cleaning things, Dean decided he might as well get the sweeping over with. At least doing it on Monday meant he'd get it out of the way and be done with it. The common room floor was by far the dirtiest, thanks to the near constant foot traffic it received, and the first floor hallway wasn't much better. The second and third floor landings were nearly spotless by comparison, but he dutifully gave them each a quick once-over all the same. As he dumped the last dustpan load into the nearest garbage can, he started to hear the noise of people approaching. He quickly stowed the broom and went out to the courtyard to pretend like he'd just come back, too.

Some of the guys went back to their rooms or to the bathrooms, but before too long everyone was back outside, milling around in the vicinity of the dining tables. Brother Nathanaël arrived, carrying a portable CD player, and went about connecting it to a small speaker which had appeared from somewhere. I wasn't long before Dean heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle, which stopped just on the other side of the stone wall. A couple guys jogged to the door in the wall and opened it to reveal a station wagon that looked at least twenty years old. The driver came around and started handing the guys containers from the back. They carried a large black styrofoam box and several short cardboard boxes to the spare table. A few other guys joined them to help unpack the food into serving dishes. The black styrofoam box was keeping three metal dishes warm, but with all the people blocking his view, Dean couldn't see what was in them. He noticed that the guys who weren't dishing out the food were starting to sit down, so he went and grabbed a seat next to Alfie, the fellow American he'd met yesterday. Soon, the food was on the table and everyone was sitting. “So, what shall we sing for grace today?” asked Brother Nathanaël.

“Tui amoris ignem,” someone called out. And so, Brother Nathanaël started singing, and the other boys quickly joined in.

“Veni Sancte Spiritus, tui amoris ignem accende. Veni Sancte Spiritus, veni Sancte Spiritus.” This was repeated a few times. Dean's limited knowledge of Latin translated it as something along the lines of “Come Holy Spirit,” and something about “your love” and “fire.”

As soon as the prayer was over, Brother Nathanaël gestured to the CD player and the boy closest to it got up to press “play.” A cello sang out as the classical music began.

Food started to be passed around, and Dean eagerly helped himself to some rice and sausages (he passed on the vegetables when they came by). The sausages were hot and greasy, just the way he liked them. The silence was mildly unnerving, though – besides the music, the only sounds to be heard were the clanking of dishes. No one was talking. Even if they wanted something, they resorted to pointing (and then pointing a little higher, or lower, or to the side, if the first thing offered wasn't what they were looking for) instead of speaking up and asking for it.

The silence went on for a while, but eventually Brother Nathanaël spoke up and asked one of the boys to turn the CD player off. “So,” he said, as soon as the music stopped. “Choir practice is at two o'clock, yes?” There was a smattering of chuckles. It took Dean a second, but then he figured it out too – Brother Nathanaël was saying that their singing, from when they sang grace, could really use some practice.

Chatter started up and, quickly, the noise level became about what Dean would have expected from a group of over a dozen guys. There was also a flurry of “pass the salt” and “can we get some of that bread over here?” from guys who had apparently decided that waiting to speak was more effective than trying to wave and point.

“How are you liking your first proper meal here?” said Alfie. “The silence is always a surprise to new guys.”

“Yeah, what's up with that?” Dean asked around a mouthful of sausage.

“Well, you know how important silence is here,” Alfie replied. Dean thought of the silence houses, and the signs demanding silence at La Cascade and outside the church. “During meals, the idea is to have some time to just _be_ together.” Sounded a little hokey, but Dean could survive ten or so minutes of silence while he ate.

When everyone was more or less done, the baskets of peaches and yogurt and cookies got passed around. Brother Nathanaël spoke up again. “We have several new faces this week, so while we are having our dessert, why don't we go around and introduce ourselves?” Dean mentally groaned. Were there always going to be more and more names to remember?

In addition to the four who'd arrived with Dean, there was Alfie from America, Ash from the Netherlands, and Zachariah from Germany, who he'd already met. Then there was Eliasz from Poland, Domingo from Mexico, Balthazar who was also from the Netherlands, Juraj from Croatia, Victor (aka the guitar guy) from Portugal, Gazsi from Hungary, and last of all Dean's blue-eyed neighbor, Castiel from Russia.

As lunch was ending, Dean started to think about what lay ahead for the rest of the day. He would meet with Bobby in a little less than an hour, see about getting out of garbage duty, and probably pore over some musty tomes with him again, trying to narrow down what type of night hag they were hunting. Lost in thought, Dean didn't realize that the table had gone quiet. He only noticed when the quiet was broken by Brother Nathanaël saying something in a language that definitely wasn't English. “Loué soit le Seigneur Christ.”

Then, to Dean's surprise, the other guys at the table responded in unison. “Qu'il soit loué toujours.” And with that, everyone began standing up and bussing their dishes.

“Don't worry, you'll catch on quickly,” Alfie leaned in to say. “It's written there.” He pointed to a table plaque Dean had noticed but not paid attention to at the previous couple of meals. Sure enough, there were two lines of text in what Dean was pretty sure was French.

“What does it mean?” Dean asked. Chanting something you didn't know the meaning of was never a good idea. In this case it was presumably safe enough, but on principle, he wasn't going to join in unless he knew what he was saying.

“I forget the exact translation,” Alfie answered, “but it's something like 'Praise the Lord Christ' and 'We praise him always.'”

Yeah, that was benign enough. He could say that, for the sake of blending in. Assuming he could remember the French words, of course.

Dean made it to Māja right on time, and waited a few minutes until Bobby arrived. Together, they went back to Bobby's room.

“Got you a chair,” Bobby said, nodding in the direction of the desk as they entered the room.

“Thanks,” Dean replied, taking a seat. “So, uh, I got to collect garbage this morning. That was fun.”

Bobby chuckled. “Yeah, sorry about that. Unfortunately, for the sake of your cover story, you'll have to do a bit of actual work. The other auxiliaires would start asking too many questions, otherwise. Gotta make you seem like one of them. I'll be pulling strings to get you assignments that might help the case, though. I figured that rubbish collection would get you all over the grounds, where you can scope things out if necessary.”

“Great,” Dean said, a little deflated. “Garbage all week, then. With Zachariah.”

“Who's that, now?” asked Bobby.

“Oh, no one. Just the other guy doing garbage duty with me. He's kind of a dick.”

Bobby chuckled again. “Welcome to living in community, kid. It ain't always sunshine and rainbows. Speaking of living in community though, did you get a private room? I had to call in a few favors to make that happen, so it'd better have worked.”

“Yeah, it worked,” said Dean. “No roommate to bug me, at least. Or go snooping around in my stuff.”

“Good,” replied Bobby. “Well, let's get down to work. These books aren't gonna read themselves.”

Dean sighed. The problem wasn't that they were having trouble finding lore on night hags – it was that they were finding too many different kinds. Instead of narrowing it down, the list of possibilities just kept growing.

“Any way we can at least limit the possibilities to European hags? I mean, it can't have come from too far away, can it?”

Bobby shook his head. “We receive visitors from all over the world. It could have conceivably followed someone from any continent.” Dean started to speak, but Bobby cut him off. “Not Antarctica, smart-ass.” Dean grinned. “I think we have enough possibilities to start with, though. Best I can tell, all night hags feed on fear, and they get their fill by causing nightmares based on the victim's deepest, darkest fear. Other than that, every species is different. Let's see which ones we can cross off the list.”

“Well, any recent strangling, drowning, or hanging deaths?” Dean asked.

“Nope. Not here, anyway. It still could have followed someone from– where's that one from?”

“Latvia. It's called a…” Dean paused, before making his best guess at pronunciation. “'Lietuvēns.' It also attacks livestock – any reports of that?”

“Not that I've heard of. Our sheep are just fine, but I'll call the nearby dairy farms to see if any of their animals have turned up mutilated. The old 'we've had reports of a wolf in the area' ruse ought to do the trick.”

“Has there been any new construction recently? The batibat, from the Philippines, lives in a tree and gets pissed when its tree gets turned into lumber.”

Bobby shook his head. “The newest building is the church, and it's made from concrete.” He thought for a moment. “Well, the outside is covered in wooden slats. But it's been standing for forty years – doesn't seem likely that he'd wait all that time before attacking.”

“She,” Dean corrected. “A batibat looks like an old, fat woman.”

“Well if you see any old, fat women hanging around the church, we can re-consider a batibat. But until then, I think it's safe to cross her off the list.” said Bobby. “Here's one – Inguma, the Basque god of dreams. Sends nightmares, and even kills sometimes.”

“God, I hope that's not it. How do you kill a god?” said Dean.

“Well, you can nail him to a cross, but that doesn't have a very good track record of making him _stay_ dead.”

Dean released a bark of laughter. He couldn't believe that a monk, of all people, would crack a joke about something he was supposed to hold sacred.

“What are you gawking at, boy? I took vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, not of humorlessness. If you can't laugh at your own religion sometimes, you're doing it wrong.”

“Yeah, but you're a monk!” Dean protested.

Bobby waved away Dean's comment. “We're just normal guys who happen to have a less than normal lifestyle. You'd be surprised at just how ordinary the fellas around here are. Anyway, I think it's safe to cross the pasikdhar from Kashmir off the list. It only targets houses that aren't clean enough, or where God isn't worshipped. With cleaning crews going around twice a day and prayers three times a day, I think we have that covered.”

“Yeah, I'd say so!” said Dean. “How about a strange little boy appearing up at Alfena? Or a woman trying to talk to the little girls? Could be a kikimora, a Slavic night hag.”

“That's a negative. We'd definitely hear about it if any funny business was going on with the kids.”

“How about the people it attacks? A kikimora would target men.”

“Nope, if anything there's been a slight preference for women.”

Dean groaned in frustration and closed the book on his lap. “Getting real sick of these answers. How about a 'yes actually, that describes what's going on perfectly'? Is that too much to ask for?”

Bobby chuckled. “Research is part of the gig, you know how it goes.”

“Yeah, well, I always preferred to fob that off onto Sammy. He's better at it anyway.”

“Well no kidding,” Bobby replied. “All your fobbing off gave him plenty of practice! Anyway, I don't know about you but I'm dying for a cup of tea. One of the European habits I've picked up in the twenty-something years I've lived here. We can pick this up again later.”

That was music to Dean's ears. Except… “One more thing. A bunch of the entries said that there were poems or prayers that could keep the night hag away. Maybe it would be possible to sneak one of them into evening prayers? Like, have the priest recite it over the people or something, just sneak it in alongside whatever he's normally up there rambling about.”

Bobby gave him an incredulous look. “You don't have to go to prayers if you don't want to – it's entirely your choice. But going at least once or twice might give you a better idea of how things work around here, and why that really wouldn't work. Just something to think about.”

Dean did think about it, on the way back to Maison d'Ange. He wasn't all that excited about the idea, but maybe Bobby had a point. And besides, it looked like he was going to be here for a while – the auxiliaires would start to notice if he never went. It wasn't like he had to go every time, after all. Just enough to let the other guys see him there. Dean sighed. It looked like he was going to church.

Dean sat in the common room, sipping a bowl of tea (“when in Rome” and whatnot). Victor had his guitar out again, and was plucking his way through – and adding his own ornamentations to – some songs from a copy of the same St. Chuck's songbook that Dean had seen in the church. Eliasz and Ash were shooting the breeze, and Juraj was at the sink, washing out the bowl he'd used for tea. Suddenly the door flung open, and Zachariah barreled in carrying a cardboard box. He plopped it down on the table and fished out a Quadro Pocket. Tearing off the wrapper, he sunk his teeth in and audibly groaned in delight. “I love these,” he said around a mouthful of wafer and hazelnut cream.

“Where did those come from?” asked Ash, peering into the box.

Zachariah swallowed. “I know someone who's working at the Economat this week. I just asked him to give me cookies.” He took another bite.

Dean glanced over at the basket of cookies they already had. There were a good number still left, but they were all gingerbready speculaas and plain tea biscuits. Zachariah's box clearly had hazelnut-filled Quadro Pockets, and maybe some of those crispy chocolate chip cookies, too. As odious as Zachariah seemed, he apparently had at least one redeeming feature. If getting extra cookies qualified as a redeeming feature. Either way, Dean was going to help himself to a Quadro Pocket.

Supper was much the same as lunch had been. They began with silence and classical music, and ended with Brother Gerhard – not Brother Nathanaël this time – saying “Loué soit le Seigneur Christ” followed by a refrain of “Qu'il soit loué toujours.” Then washing up for the two who'd signed up for tonight's spot, and a little free time for the rest.

Dean spent the time up in his room, going over some notes he'd taken on the different types of night hags. Much of the information they'd found was frustratingly similar from one type to the next. In addition to feeding on fear and causing nightmares, they all sat on the victim's chest while they slept, pinning them to the bed and making it hard to breathe. Some used their hands to strangle the victim, on top of it all. And naturally, making everything even more confusing, the lore surrounding any given monster was often patchy and inexact, cobbled together from second- and third-hand reports collected over decades or even centuries. That was another reason Dean wasn't particularly fond of the research portion of a hunt. There was a precision and certainty to firing a bullet or sinking a blade into a monster that the fuzziness of research just couldn't match. But to kill the monster, he had to find the monster, and to figure out how to do that, he had to do the research.

Dean heard the bells start to ring in the distance. He groaned. It had been a long day, and he may have decided to check out prayers but he really wasn't in the mood to do it tonight. Besides, it was only Monday. He still had time before the auxiliaires started to get suspicious. He'd go in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * I made Zachariah a little bit more obnoxious than the guy he's based on. A very, very little bit.
>   * The “how do you kill a god?” joke is one of my favorite bits in this whole entire fic X-D
>   * The real-world lore about night hags doesn't always mention causing nightmares, but Supernatural plays fast and loose with the lore (cough Samhain cough) so I'll go ahead and take a few liberties, too. So for the sake of this fic, all night hags cause nightmares :-P
> 



	12. Week Two, Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Sfinte Dumnezeule](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiz78bw_a-0) (Romanian)
>     * [Cantarei ao Senhor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVs0QAODPx4) (Portuguese)
>     * [Alleluia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8L1BS7pMurE)
>     * [Kristus, din Ande i oss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7VPSlItRj4) (Swedish)
>     * [Kyrie eleison](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbfhJKb9O_E) (Greek)
> 


Dean slept through prayers the next morning. He was up and dressed in time for breakfast, though. He had a vague recollection of having dreamt of bacon and eggs, but it was the same breakfast as usual. Neither Brother Nathanaël nor Brother Gerhard was there this morning, but everything went smoothly. The guys who had been at Maison d'Ange for longer knew the rhythms of the day backwards and forwards by now.

After breakfast, it was off to morning work assignments. Which meant garbage duty. Again. Dean sighed and trudged off to Caerwys. They got started a bit faster today, now that everyone already knew their assignments. Björn was nowhere to be seen, though, so Dean couldn't ask him about taking the driving test. He unenthusiastically climbed into the garbage truck's passenger seat, while Zachariah took the wheel. Alfena and the women's silence house were as uneventful as before. Dean kept his eyes open for any night hag signs, since that was ostensibly why he was on garbage duty in the first place, but he didn't really expect to find any.

When they got back to the main grounds, Zachariah decided to tackle the right side first instead of the left this time. They went through and picked up the trash and recycling in the over-thirty area, or rather, Dean did the picking up while Zachariah once again stayed in the truck. This distribution of labor hardly seemed fair, but if the driver really didn't have to handle most of the garbage bags, that was all the more reason to take the driving test as soon as possible.

When they got to La Cascade's upper gate, there was a small crowd of people gathered outside and spilling out into the road. Zachariah slowed to a stop and called out to the nearest member of the group. “Where is your Bible study?”

The man, who looked like he was from India or perhaps somewhere else in South Asia, pointed to the field beyond the gate. There was a large canopy tent there, off to the side – to Dean, it looked as likely a place as any for a Bible study.

But Zachariah had a different take on the matter. “That is not possible,” he said. “La Cascade is not open yet. Where did your brother tell you to meet?”

Again the man pointed, and added “In the tent, over there.” Others in the crowd were starting to look over at them. It would be hard to miss a truck idling in their midst, after all.

“It's in there,” confirmed a young woman with a Nordic accent.

“No it's not,” Zachariah doubled down. “There are never Bible studies there.”

“Dude, I think they know where their Bible study is,” Dean interjected.

Zachariah gave him a condescending look. “There is never a Bible study there,” he repeated. The crowd showed no sign of moving to a different, correct location, though, so Zachariah just threw his hands up in exasperation. “Field Hospitality can deal with them,” he said, as he started moving the truck again. The crowd split to let him through as he slowly drove down the road to the barracks behind Nyumba.

The rest of the route went by without incident. Back at the trash compacting area, Dean noticed that the teenagers who were sorting the recycling were removing the cap from each plastic bottle before tossing it into the plastics container, and dumping the caps into a separate bucket. It seemed like an unnecessary bit of added effort. “Are the caps not recyclable?” Dean asked. He'd never really thought about it before, but then, he'd never been all that dedicated to recycling. Unless Sam was watching, of course – tossing bottles into a different bin was easier than getting chewed out over it.

“Björn said it's for one of Brother Scott's art projects over at Wáȟwala Bláye,” said one of the teens. He sighed. “It's kind of a pain.”

Right, Dean recalled, the bottle cap murals, and the buckets of bottle caps sorted by color to make your own. It had looked like there were more than enough already, but Dean was still the new guy and Björn seemed like he knew what he was doing. So if those were the orders, Dean wasn't going to interfere. Besides, unscrewing plastic bottle caps might be a pain, but at least it got them out of hauling garbage bags from the truck to the compactor.

The recycling unloaded, Zachariah started driving the truck down the hill. Dean followed, wishing he could trade places with one of the bottle cap kids instead.

Back at Maison d'Ange, Dean took a quick shower and changed into clean clothes. He regarded the dirty clothes on the floor for a moment. The easiest thing to do would be to designate one pair of jeans as his “dirty” pair for the week, to wear in the mornings and change out of afterwards. It wasn't ideal, but it would save him from having to do a small load of laundry every day and tie up the machine for everyone else.

Dean was on his way back downstairs when the bells for midday prayers started ringing. He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and kept going. He'd been to church services before, of course. Pastor Jim had, naturally, brought him and Sammy along whenever they'd stayed at his place through the weekend. Hell, one of Dean's earliest memories was Sam's baptism. But Pastor Jim's church services were always kind of boring, and going in the middle of the day on a Tuesday just seemed weird. Not to mention going three times a day, every day. But still, it's not like he'd committed himself to attending all of them. He was just starting off with one.

Down in the common room, some of the other guys were getting ready to head out. Domingo was putting on his shoes, and Gazsi was dropping a bowl off into the sink. Toshi was by the door waiting for them, and Balthazar was just taking a comically long time to stretch and stand up from his chair. Zachariah was licking hazelnut cream off the inside of a Quadro Pocket wrapper, but he'd presumably be ready to leave once he finished with that. Dean moseyed on over to the door and, by the time he got there, everyone but Zachariah was ready to go.

Loads of people were streaming into the church when Dean and the other guys with him arrived. They went to the side door, near the back, and joined the funnel of people slowly making their way inside. Once inside, they were met by a line of teenagers. The first two were handing out song books. The next one handed Dean an orange piece of paper with additional songs printed on it, and the last had half-size pieces of paper with a Bible verse from the book of Isaiah, printed in a half dozen different languages. Dean waited for the auxiliaires to get their hand-outs, then followed them to see where they sat. The church was already getting crowded, even with the metal grates rolled up to combine the side rooms and main room into one big space. Even so, it was easy to wade through the crowd thanks to the tape marking off walkways on the floor.

Dean was mildly surprised when the auxiliaires stopped and sat down in an area just behind the boxwood shrub-delineated area. In this space, strips of paper labeled “Reserved” were taped down at regular intervals. Apparently, this was one of the added perks of being an auxiliaire. Dean took a seat. The beige, wall-to-wall carpet was short, and provided protection from the cold floor below but not much comfort. The floor itself was slightly sloped downward, so people sitting in the back could (at least in theory) see over the heads of all the people in front of them.

Dean looked around. Most of the people in the church were sitting on the floor. Here and there were people sitting on the little prayer benches sold in La Boutique, or on homemade versions of the same. Seeing them, Dean understood why the benches were so short. They weren't designed for sitting normally, the way he'd imagined, but rather to support the person's butt in a kneeling position.

The bells were still ringing, and people were still streaming in. The brothers, in long white robes, were coming in one or two at a time from an entrance near the front of the church which was hidden behind an icon-covered screen. Each brother took his place on a prayer bench in the front-central area that was cordoned off by the low shrubbery, or on a chair in the case of some of the older brothers. Bobby wheeled himself in line with the other chairs along the right side of the brothers' area.

Dean had seen the front of the church during his initial EMF sweep, of course, but it was far more striking now that it was lit up. Tall, triangular swathes of orange fabric soared up to the ceiling. A great many terra cotta chimney blocks rested on their sides in a big pile, and a scattering of small candles peeked out from inside some of them. An altar stood front and center. To one side stood a small metal cross with a heart on each of its four arms, and to the other side, the large crucifix icon.

By the time the bells tapered off, every brother's seat was filled though visitors were still trickling in. A handful of small children ran through a gap in the shrubbery and sat around a brother who was sitting by himself, behind the rest. Dean guessed that he was probably Brother Marcel, the community's prior.

After a momentary silence, an organ began to play and a brother's voice was quickly joined by the combined voices of the entire crowd inside the church. Dean wondered how they knew which song to sing, until he noticed a small LED display on the side wall, showing a number from the songbook. He quickly flipped to the right page and did his best to follow along, though the words weren't in any language he'd ever heard.

“Sfinte Dumnezeule, Sfinte tare, Sfinte făr' de moarte, miluieştene pe noi.” The phrase was repeated over and over again, to a haunting melody. By the third repetition, Dean felt he had at least a little bit of a grasp on the syllables. He hazarded a glance at the text written below the music, in small letters. It provided a translation into several different languages. The English translation read, “Holy God, Holy mighty, Holy immortal, have compassion on us.” After a few repetitions, the organ started playing a drone and a brother's voice rang out in a solo, still in a language Dean couldn't understand. That was followed by a couple more repetitions of the main lyrics, which ended when a brother's voice could be heard substituting “amen” for the last two syllables.

The number on the LED display changed, and another song began. Dean found the right page faster this time. It looked a bit like Spanish, but not quite. Portuguese, he guessed. “Cantarei ao Senhor, enquanto viver; louvarei o meu Deus enquanto existir. Nele encontro a minha alegria, nele encontro a minha alegria.” The English translation below the music staff read, “All life long, for the Lord I will sing; while I live, I will praise my God. My joy is in God.” The music was a little brighter, and a flute wove in and out of the instrumental accompaniment.

After a couple more songs, two brothers came up to the lectern inside the brothers' cordoned-off area, but right in front of the auxiliaires' area. A number came up on the LED screen, and Dean turned to the right page to be prepared. The lyrics were just “Alleluia” repeated a few times – that would be easy enough. One of the brothers began to read aloud, in French. “Le prophète Isaïe écrit…” The rest was lost on Dean.

After the first brother spoke, the organ music started and the crowd sang one refrain of Alleluias. Then the second brother stepped up to the lectern, and read in English. “The prophet Isaiah writes, 'The Lord says: Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.'” The reading went on a little bit longer, and Dean looked down at the smaller paper he'd been handed on his way into the church. Sure enough, this was the Bible passage printed on it. The attribution was “Isaiah 43:18-21.” There was another refrain of Alleluias, and the two brothers returned to their seats.

Several more brothers read shortened versions of the passage from where they were, in several more languages, punctuated by more Alleluias. Dean recognized Spanish, Russian, and German, but wasn't sure what all of the other languages were.

Another song started playing, and Dean flipped to the page in his book. “Kristus, din Ande i oss är en källa med porlande vatten.” After this had been sung a number of times, and a brother sang “amen,” Dean looked to see what the next song's number was, but the LED display was dark. Several moments of silence went by, and the display still wasn't showing a new number. Dean started to look around to see if anyone else was confused. Instead, he saw a lot of people with their eyes closed or their heads bowed. A few were even bent so far forward that they were resting their arms on the floor, and their heads on their arms. It started to dawn on Dean that the silence wasn't an awkward pause, but an intentional part of the prayer service. Like Alfie had said – silence was important here. Now, he just wondered how long it would last. He glanced at his watch and took note of the time.

Calling what was happening “silence” wasn't quite accurate, Dean realized. True, there was no talking or singing or instrumental music. But it was only natural for there to be some background noise in such a large crowd. There were shuffling sounds as people adjusted their positions. Papers ruffled. Somewhere to the left, he heard someone blowing their nose. And there was plenty of coughing. It was like a cough was being volleyed around the entire room, striking someone on the left, then on the right, then towards the back, but always somewhere. Dean figured that with so many people coming from so many different places, it must be inevitable for cold germs to be passed around. He reminded himself to start washing his hands before every meal.

Dean twiddled his thumbs and looked around at the various people. Most of the ones he could see looked to be in their teens or twenties, as Bobby had explained the first time they met. But there were also a handful of older people, and families with children. Off to the side, Dean saw a couple of nuns wearing blue habits with white veils. They must be visiting, he surmised, since Bobby had said that the sisters who help out at St. Chuck's had their own, separate prayers. A ways behind him he saw a monk in a brown robe, which seemed to confirm that religious from other communities came here on retreat.

Dean started flipping through the songbook, taking a closer look. In the front, the songs were listed by title, and then by language. He counted – there were fifty-one languages represented overall, from Arabic to Zulu (as well as several in non-Latin scripts). A few languages had only one or two songs, but others had dozens. Next, there were suggestions, given in eight different languages, for how to host St. Chuck's-style prayer services back home (wherever “home” may be). The actual songs started after this, with most being only one or two lines long. The musical scores provided for four-part harmony, though from what Dean had heard so far, most people just stuck with the melody. There were over one hundred fifty songs in total, plus a few more on the orange piece of paper he'd been given along with the songbook. A small note at the top of the orange sheet explained that these were new songs, still being tested, and not necessarily in their final forms.

Man, Dean thought, they really took their music seriously here. And for all the myriad languages, so far he found them easier to sing than the hymns at Pastor Jim's church had been. He'd never liked those hymns – they were far too wordy. By the time you'd digested one line, the hymn had moved on to the next line and thrown another concept at you. It was impossible to keep up with all the words and understand what they were saying at the same time. The songs here were kind of nice, though. Repeating a short refrain gave you time to actually think about what the words meant. People who came here for the religious stuff would probably value that, Dean figured.

As Dean was looking through the songbook, a brother's voice suddenly broke the silence. This time, it sounded like German. Dean checked his watch – it had been six or seven minutes. When the brother stopped singing, the organ picked up and the crowd responded with “Kyrie, Kyrie eleison.” Different brothers took turns, singing short solos in different languages. After each, the Kyrie response repeated. One of the brothers sang in English, letting Dean understand the words for once. “For refugees in foreign lands, that they may find welcome, Lord we pray,” followed again by a refrain of “Kyrie, Kyrie eleison.”

After the last Kyrie, another number appeared on the LED display and another song began, and after that another one. Then, individual brothers began reciting something in different languages again. The English version came around: “Holy Spirit, you have a call for every one of us. So come, prepare our hearts to discover what it is that you expect of each of us.”

The brothers' prayers were followed by a couple more songs. Then, in the middle of the third song, Dean noticed movement in the corner of his eye and looked up from his songbook to see the brothers leaving as a group. Moments later, people around him started getting up too and heading toward the exits. Many were still singing along with the music, which continued playing as everyone left the church.

Outside, Dean saw the crowd forming outside the food pavilion. He was grateful that he didn't have to wait in that line anymore. With fifteen other people around the table there was still a little bit of a wait to get everything, but not nearly as long as waiting for several hundred people to get through the lines in front of him. He did kinda miss seeing Charlie at meals, though. Hopefully he'd still see her around at some point during the week.

After lunch, it was Dean's turn to wash the dishes. The indoor sink job looked easier, so he grabbed that spot and left Victor with the outdoor sink. There were a few used bowls and eating utensils in the sink already, from people who'd helped themselves to a mid-morning snack. Dean grumbled. Everyone was supposed to wash their own dishes between meals (“Even Brother Marcel washes his own dishes,” the saying went), but naturally not everyone did (and a few guys had openly voiced doubt as to whether Brother Marcel truly did, too).

Dean filled one side of the sink with soapy water and the other with plain water. He wasn't used to having a divided sink to work with, but the way he'd seen others do it looked quicker than he was used to (on the occasions he stayed somewhere with a kitchen, at least), so he figured he'd give it a try. Dirty bowls got scrubbed under water in the soapy side, rinsed with a dunk on the plain side, then stacked up in a big pyramid to dry. There were dish towels spread under the bowls to absorb the water dripping off them, which were thoroughly water-logged by the time all the bowls were done. Silverware went onto the lower part of the drying racks behind the bowls. Clean plates, serving bowls, and serving utensils got passed through the window from the outside sink, and Dean stacked them onto the drying rack. There were an awful lot of dishes overall, but they went quicker than Dean had expected. Also, the front of his shirt got wetter than he'd expected. He went upstairs to change.

Dean decided to investigate the grounds again for signs of a night hag. He'd done a thorough once-over last week, but now he had a better idea of what he was looking for. And seeing as hunting was his official afternoon job anyway, it wasn't like he had anything better to do. He headed up the road to start at the tents, since the attacks had all occurred in sleeping areas. It went quicker this time, since he was just looking around instead of scanning every last friggin' tent for EMF. He finished all the tents, barracks, and the over-thirty area by teatime. Perfect timing – he'd forgotten to bring his water bottle along, and all that walking had made him thirsty.

When Dean had first moved into Maison d'Ange, Brother Nathanaël said that auxiliaires were supposed to take their tea in their house. But that was all the way down the road, and he saw a vat of tea being carried towards the over-thirty area where he'd just been. He was only five years away from being thirty. How hard could it be to pass as someone who belonged there? Dean turned around and went back. He was one of the first handful of folks to get in line, and was served a bowl of iced tea and a packet of savory crackers without incident. Not even a side-eye. The tea was served on one side of the area's canopy tent, and there were plenty of benches on the other side, so he went over and had a seat so he could relax a bit. After a few minutes, though, Dean's nose began to itch. He looked around and noticed a small cat – not a tiny kitten, but definitely not full-grown either – peeking out from behind the wall erected at the back of the tent. It was cute enough, white with big black splotches, but Dean's cat allergy meant he wasn't exactly thrilled to see it.

“Aw,” Dean overheard someone a couple benches over say. “He thinks he's going to get some more of that ham from lunch. Sorry kitty, there's nothing here for you right now!” The kitten didn't linger for too long before trotting off to look for food elsewhere, but it did stay long enough to give Dean a sneezing fit.

After finishing his tea, Dean spent the rest of the afternoon going back through La Cascade. When he got to the waterfall, he took a good look at the top to see if he could spot the pump that produced it, but it was too well hidden. He listened for a hum, but the sound of falling water masked any sound the pump made. Even knowing that it was fake, Dean thought it looked real. And knowing that it was fake still didn't take away from how peaceful it was.

By the time Dean had finished walking all the side-paths in the wooded area and the entire figure-eight of the main paths, a handful of young adults were starting to go around and inform everyone that La Cascade was closing and it was time to head back up. His stomach was also telling him that it was nearly time for supper, and he certainly didn't want to be late for food.

Back at Maison d'Ange, Dean noticed a new, bright orange flyer stuck to the whiteboard. The big text at the top read “Auxiliaire Music Night Sign-Ups,” and below it, “Friday, 22:00, Shaanti.” The body of the flyer was taken up by two columns for participants to write down their names and musical instruments. So far there was one name written there: “Castiel Novakov – Accordion.” Accordion? Victor's guitar made sense, but what kind of person brings an accordion with them? Dean didn't really know his neighbor yet, but he was starting to suspect that he was a bit of a dork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Dean's thoughts on hymns vs. “St. Chuck's” songs are shamelessly based on my own, lol
>   * Pretty much every prayer in this fic (there's, like, one exception I think?) is from the real “St. Chuck's”
>   * “Kyrie eleison” is usually translated as “Lord have mercy.” This can be kind of misleading, though, since the common definition of “mercy” has narrowed over the centuries. It used to have a broader meaning, closer to the present-day word “compassion,” which includes the present-day concept of mercy but also so much more. So in most contexts, I prefer to translate it as “compassion.”
>   * Don't worry, Dean won't check every friggin' building again. Well, he will, but it'll be “off screen.” I don't want to write that again any more than you want to read it again!
> 



	13. Week Two, Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Guess what? Dean FINALLY meets Cas properly in this chapter! Halle-friggin-lujah!
>   * Songs:
>     * [El Senyor és la meva força](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nfqa4pRpMh4) (Catalan)
>     * [Let all who are thirsty come](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaxRwEZH5kg) (Fun fact: This is my fave “St. Chuck's” prayer)
> 


Dean was less than eager to go to work on Wednesday morning. The week wasn't even halfway over yet, and he'd already had more than enough contact with garbage to last him a lifetime. Well, with garbage bags, at least. It could be worse, he thought as he and Zachariah walked to Caerwys in silence. He could be back on that one hunt where he'd had to search through the actual garbage itself for discarded skin to confirm a shapeshifter theory. That had been utterly disgusting. Compared to that, if Dean was truly honest with himself, this job was just awfully unpleasant.

Dean looked around for Björn again, hoping to finally ask about the Caerwys driving test, but he was nowhere in sight. So yet again, after suiting up in their leather aprons and gloves, Dean ended up in the passenger seat while Zachariah drove.

They started the route the same way as always, with Alfena first, followed by the women's silence house on the way back. Then, as the day before, Zachariah turned to address the right side of the main grounds first. When they reached the road by the upper gate to La Cascade, there was once again a group of people waiting outside it and spilling out into the road.

“I can't believe this!” Zachariah exclaimed. He came to a stop just in front of the crowd and called out the window. “What are you all doing here?”

“Waiting for the brother to come for our Bible study,” said the same South Asian man who'd spoken yesterday.

Zachariah had even less patience today. “There are no Bible studies in La Cascade! Where are you _supposed_ to be?”

“Seriously dude,” said Dean. “It's Wednesday. I think they know where they've been meeting for the past two days.” Zachariah glowered at him.

Just then, the crowd parted to let a grey-haired man through to the gate. He was wearing khaki pants, a plain button-down shirt, and sandals – the de facto uniform for a brother. And there in his hand was a key on an oversized wooden keychain. He walked up to the gate, unlocked it, and ushered the gathered crowd in. Zachariah continued driving without comment.

At the barracks behind Nyumba, Dean got out and tossed the collected garbage bags into the back of the truck. Then he noticed one garbage can that looked like it hadn't been emptied in days. It was full to the brim, with overflow starting to pile up on the ground around it. He steeled his nerves and went to tie the bag closed and load it into the truck with the rest of the bags. When he tried to lift it, though, he realized what the problem was. The bottom of the bag had split open. The can itself had no bottom, and was suspended a few inches above the ground by a metal frame which held both the garbage and recycling cans, so the garbage was falling all the way through the can and out onto the ground below it. Dean realized what he had to do. “Son of a bitch!”

Dean explained the situation to Zachariah as he grabbed a couple of unused trash bags from the cabin of the truck. “That's not our job,” Zachariah called back as Dean returned to the overflowing can. “It's the field people's job.” Maybe so, Dean thought, but if the visitors assigned to rubbish collection didn't know how to deal with this can, then somebody else had to do it.

He carefully removed the broken bag with as much of the garbage as it would still hold, and shoved it into one of the new bags. Then he took a deep breath and, grateful for his thick leather gloves, began stuffing handfuls of the spilled garbage into the new bag, too. The closer the got to the bottom, the older and more disgusting it became. By the end, there were even live maggots squirming inside the various wrappers and plastic containers. Dean felt nauseated, and had to hold back a retch several times. But it was really only a couple of minutes before the task was complete and he could throw one very full bag into the back of the truck, and put the other new bag into the trash can. He shook out his gloves and apron before getting back into the truck.

“That's not our job,” Zachariah repeated once Dean was back in the passenger seat. “We handle the big picture. The little picture is for the field people who are on rubbish collection.”

“Well someone had to take care of that can before it got even worse,” Dean retorted. “And if they didn't know what to do with it today, they wouldn't know what to do with it for the rest of the week either. So, you're welcome.” But truthfully, getting so up close and personal with rotting garbage only strengthened Dean's resolve to get into the driver's seat before the end of the week.

After hosing down the truck at the end of the shift, they all headed back to Caerwys for iced tea and cookies. That extra snack each day didn't exactly make the job worth it, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Björn had returned from whatever project he'd been working on, and stopped by the courtyard for a bowl of tea, too.

“Hey Björn,” said Dean. “I was wondering about the Caerwys driving test Zachariah mentioned the other day. How do I go about taking that?”

“Oh, of course,” Björn replied. “We can do that today after lunch, if you're available.”

“Yeah, my afternoons are flexible,” said Dean.

“Great, come back at three o'clock, then.”

Zachariah looked unhappy at overhearing that exchange, but there was nothing he could say other than “Speaking of driving, here's the key back,” as he handed the truck key to Björn.

The air between Dean and Zachariah was tense as they carried the tea and cookie leftovers back to the main kitchen. It felt like Zachariah was about to say something, but he never actually voiced whatever he was thinking. The walk back to Maison d'Ange was equally tense. Dean was tempted to make up some excuse to get away, but he really needed a good hot shower after dealing with all that garbage.

Dean was showered, dressed, and hanging out in the common room (where Zachariah was once again devouring a Quadro Pocket) when the bells for midday prayers started to ring. With everyone else heading in the same direction, Dean wasn't sure he could gracefully sneak away without being noticed, so he ended up going to prayers once again. Now that he knew there was no droning sermon to dread, he wasn't quite so reluctant to go anyway.

Dean ended up sitting with Alfie, Ash, and Balthazar. Balthazar, however, seemed a bit more interested in the girl sitting next to him than in the prayers. Ash had to elbow him in the ribs several times when his whispering with her got too loud. Eventually, they switched to passing a notebook back and forth instead. Afterwards, the two tried to linger outside the church to talk more. Alfie and Ash had to practically pull Balthazar away.

“Come on, Balthazar,” said Alfie. “Julianna has to get back to Vierge, and we need to get back to d'Ange. You'll make all of us late for lunch.”

Balthazar reached out and gave Julianna's hand a squeeze before reluctantly turning away. “I hate how little time we have to talk with the girls,” Balthazar complained. “If you're not working the same job, you hardly ever see them. It's like the sisters don't trust us or something!”

“In your case,” said Ash, “I think that distrust is deserved! She's what, the third girl you've been 'talking to' this summer?”

“It's not like that!” Balthazar protested. “It's different with Julianna!” From the looks of incredulity on Ash's and Alfie's faces, Dean got the distinct impression that it was indeed “like that,” and the prior two girls had been “different,” too. “You have it so much easier,” Balthazar continued, looking at Alfie. “If you met someone, you could see him all the time.”

Alfie went from looking mildly incredulous to downright gobsmacked. “You think I have it easy? 'If I met someone?' That's a really, really big 'if'! You meet a new girl every other week. I haven't 'met someone' all summer!”

“Plus,” added Ash, “what if he was in d'Esprit? We hardly ever see them outside of work, either.”

Dean realized he was holding his breath. By all accounts, this wasn't how religious folks usually acted toward a– well, someone like Alfie.

Balthazar was determined to make his point. “It would still be easier to meet up, since the boys' houses are so close together and the girls' houses are so far away. You would manage, I think.”

Alfie rolled his eyes. “It would be a lot more difficult than you're giving it credit for. Luckily, I'm not really looking for that anyway.”

“Ah, that's right,” said Balthazar. “We have little Brother Alfie here.” He threw a playful arm around Alfie's neck in order to drag him in and ruffle his hair.

Alfie pushed Balthazar away, but couldn't hide a bashful grin. “Someday, I hope.”

The classical music stopped, and the chatter around the table began. Dean was surprised that, even though there was no brother with them for lunch today, they'd sang grace and then hooked someone's iPod up to the speakers to observe a period of silence accompanied by classical music. He'd been sure that no brother would mean no rules, but instead it had just gone without saying that they would observe the St. Chuck's customs as usual.

Dean was seated between Castiel and Adam. He was just about to ask Adam if he had any more tattoos, besides the names of God on his arm, when Castiel spoke up in a thick Russian accent. “You are from America, yes?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean replied, caught a bit off guard. “Born and raised.”

“I am hoping to travel there for school this year,” Castiel said.

“Cutting it a little close, aren't you? Shouldn't you have heard back by now?” Dean had learned a thing or two about the college admissions process when he'd helped Sam with it, and not having heard back by now was not a good sign.

“I am on waitlist,” Castiel clarified, with a wry smile. “I check e-mail twice each week at internet shack to see if I have been admitted.”

“Aw man, that must suck.” Sam had been waitlisted at his second choice college, and was a ball of anxiety until he got his acceptance letter from Stanford. “What school is it?”

“University of California,” said Castiel. “For master's degree.”

Dean chuckled. “Which University of California? There are nine.” Sam had wanted to visit all of them, but Dean put his foot down at three. (Besides, UC San Francisco was only for grad students, so what even was the point of visiting there?)

“Ah, is in Berkeley,” said Castiel. “You are familiar with this school?”

“My brother applied there,” Dean said, nodding. “Ended up going to Stanford, though.” They'd visited Stanford and UC Berkeley on the same trip, actually, seeing as they're only an hour or so apart.

“I considered Stanford too,” Castiel replied. “But I got better scholarship offer from University of California. American schools are very expensive!”

“No kidding! Sam – my brother – was lucky his top pick also offered him the best deal.”

“Did you go to Stanford as well?” Castiel asked.

Dean gave a dismissive hand gesture. “Nah, Sammy's the brains of the family. I didn't bother with college.”

“In my family, there is no choice. You go to university, or you will be family disappointment. I could not be only one of all my brothers and sisters who does not go!”

Dean may not have known what it was like to attend college, but he knew about trying to live up to a parent's expectations. “Still,” he said. “You can't have hated it, if you're going back for more.”

“Yes, that was my decision,” said Castiel. “My father said that philosophy is useless degree, but I love studying it.”

“What did he want you to study instead?” Dean asked.

Castiel shrugged. “Business or engineering like my brothers, probably. But I told him that philosophy is similar to theology. Theology students have to study some philosophy, yes? So then he allowed me to study it.”

“Ah, real religious type?” Dean asked. He mentally kicked himself. This dude came to a monastery for fun during his summer vacation – of course he came from a “real religious type” family.

“You could say that,” Castiel said. “Also, I am last chance for one of his sons to become priest. So he is very hopeful, I think.”

“Oh wow, no pressure or anything,” Dean replied.

“Well, I applied also to Saint Petersburg Theological Academy. And I am accepted there already. So maybe he will not be disappointed.”

Oh man. So not only was this kid an accordion-playing dork, he was also a wanna-be priest dork. Possibly. Dean was gonna have to be on his best behavior around this guy.

“So what if you get into both schools?” Dean asked, around a mouthful of pesto pasta.

Cas paused with his fork a few inches above his plate. “Then I will have a lot of thinking to do.”

Dean was at Caerwys for his driving test at a quarter to three. Luckily, Björn was also early for their appointment so Dean didn't have long to wait.

Björn saw him and held up the key to the garbage truck. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Let's do this!” Dean replied, rubbing his hands together.

Björn tossed the key to Dean, and they walked outside. Once in the truck Dean looked at the manual shifter and took a deep breath. He could do this. He turned the key, shifted into first gear, then into reverse, and pulled smoothly out of the parking spot. So far so good.

“Turn left at the road,” instructed Björn.

Dean coasted to a perfect stop, remembering to engage the clutch before the brake to prevent the car from stalling out. He hit the turn signal by pure muscle memory (some things, at least, were exactly the same as he was used to), looked to make sure he wouldn't hit anyone… and promptly stalled. Twice. Then finally managed to make the turn. Okay, back on track. He could still do this.

Björn directed him around the trickiest part of the trash collection route, the curvy road up by the over-thirty area and La Cascade, then down the narrow road to the barracks behind Nyumba. There were no other vehicles on the road, but plenty of people crossing or walking along it. Dean only stalled out three more times, nearly hit pedestrians twice (while trying desperately to slow down without stalling yet again), and made Björn start to reach over to grab the wheel once. To his credit, he pulled back into the parking spot at Caerwys perfectly, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Björn accepted the key back from a thoroughly dejected Dean. “Perhaps you practice a little more with a manual car, back home, and then try again next time you come to St. Chuck's,” he said.

The conciliatory phrasing did little to raise Dean's spirits. Cars were the one thing he was good at. He was a damn good driver and he knew it, but apparently that only applied to automatic transmissions. Dean shook the hand Björn was offering. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said with a wan smile.

Dean half-heartedly continued his re-check with the exteriors of Nyumba, Māja, Kuća, and the various auxiliaire houses before heading back to Maison d'Ange to relax. (Sulk? Dean Winchester did not sulk!) Alfie was sitting in the courtyard, using a pocket knife to carve something into the top of a prayer bench. Juraj, Vitalik, Dino, and Eliasz were in the common room, snacking on fruit and cookies. Gazsi had gotten out a jar of jam, and was searching the bread basket for pieces which hadn't hardened from being out too long. “Is this bread?” he asked, tapping the slice on the table. “Or is it stone?” Dean trudged up the stairs without bothering to greet them.

Dean had recovered a bit from his funk by the time supper rolled around. The chicken nuggets they had for supper helped raise his mood, too – in Dean's book, anything fried qualified as comfort food. The chocolate pudding for dessert didn't hurt, either.

After Brother Gerhard had led them in the short “Loué soit le Seigneur Christ/Qu'il soit loué toujours” prayer, and read who was responsible for washing dishes from the chores sign-up sheet, the yard became its usual post-meal scene of everyone throwing away their trash and bussing their dishes.

“Where's my bucket?” Dean heard Domingo call out. Right, Domingo was one of the guys washing dishes tonight, which meant he was also responsible for wiping down the table with a soapy sponge.

“ _Our_ bucket,” Ash called back. “Common life!”

Adam snickered in response.

“That's exactly what they'd call it in a Carmelite monastery, actually,” said Alfie as they waited for a turn to throw their trash away. “Since brothers don't have personal property, everything is shared in common, they refer to everything as 'ours.' 'Our room,' 'our habit'–”

“'Our tighty-whities'?” Dean cut in. That earned a proper laugh from Adam, as well as a stifled chuckle from Castiel.

After clean-up from supper was finished, Dean once again found himself walking with the auxiliaires up toward the church for prayers. He wasn't quite sure why this time, and twice in one day seemed a bit excessive, but then again most people here went three times a day. The service was much the same as it had been at midday. It started with a song which went, “El Senyor és la meva força, el Senyor el meu cant. Ell m'ha estat la salvació. En ell confio i no tinc por, en ell confio i no tinc por.”

Dean wondered if there would be a sermon at some point during the service, since evening prayers weren't pressed for time the way the prayers right before meals were. But it was the same basic pattern of songs, a multilingual reading from the Bible, a period of silence, more songs, a short spoken prayer, and yet more songs. The biggest difference Dean could discern was that the service was a little bit longer and there was an additional Bible reading, from the book of John, in which Jesus promised living water to the woman at the well. This reading and its accompanying Alleluias were followed, appropriately enough, by a song (in English, for once) that said, “Let all who are thirsty come. Let all who wish receive the water of life freely. Amen, come Lord Jesus.”

Once again, at the end of the service, the brothers rose and left en masse. But unlike at midday, many of the people present did not likewise leave. And shortly after leaving, a half dozen brothers came back and stood at a few, roughly evenly spaced points throughout the church. It wasn't long before most of them had someone come up and start speaking with them, though Dean was too far away to hear what anyone was saying over the continued singing. He vaguely recalled reading something in the welcome guide about brothers being available to talk with after evening prayers, so this must be what that was referring to. Dean wondered what kinds of things people talked to monks about, anyway. Bible stuff? Prayer requests? Were they looking for advice? He could ask Bobby next time they met up, though realistically he'd probably forget by then. After a little while, the brothers left again. Most of the auxiliaires were gone by now, though a decent scattering of visitors remained. Dean wondered how long the songs continued into the night, but not enough to stay and find out. So he got up, stretched his legs (which were starting to fall asleep from sitting on the ground for so long), and headed outside.

Many people were still gathered just outside the church, watching the sun set over the trees in the distance. The yellows and oranges reminded him of many evenings he'd spent with the open road stretched out before him, first with Dad driving and Sammy in the back, then later on his own. It was kind of comforting, seeing such a familiar sight amid such strange surroundings.

“Good evening!” called out a French-accented voice, soon after Dean passed by Kuća. “May I ask where you are going?”

“Uh, back to Maison d'Ange?” Dean answered. In the street lights, he could see that his interrogator was some funny-looking skinny dude, sitting on the stone wall that surrounded the nearby canopy tents. He was accompanied by two other young adults.

“Aha, have a pleasant night, then,” the skinny guy replied.

“You the grounds police or something?” Dean asked.

“Night Hospitality,” he answered. “The brothers, they do not want visitors running wild in the village after dark. So if they try to pass by, we send them over to Kohvik instead for their nighttime festivities.”

Dean gave a playful salute. “Well, keep up the good work, citizen.” He heard the guy laugh a goofy-sounding laugh as he continued past. He felt miffed to learn that he'd actually been penned in at night for his first week here, and moreover, that he hadn't gotten a chance to see if he could've snuck out anyway. But it was neat to now be one of the VIPs who could get through the checkpoint. He kinda wished it required a secret password, though. That would be cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Can you guess who the funny-looking French dude was? It's no big deal if you can't. I'll tell you right now, I adore him, but he's not an important character in this fic. You'll find out who he is a couple chapters from now, anyway.
> 



	14. Week Two, Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Just a quick note, cause it's been on my mind. Almost all of the minor background characters, even the ones named after canon characters, are partially based on real people I knew at the real “St. Chuck's.” So if (for example) Toshi is on the quiet side and Dino is on the loud side, it's just cause the real “Toshi” and “Dino” happened to be like that. They are meant as individuals, not avatars of their respective cultures. That said, I am well aware that intent is not impact. So if anyone finds that I have portrayed their culture in a racist or otherwise harmful or offensive manner, please accept my sincere apology, and my promise that I will try to do better in the future.
> 


Rubbish collection on Thursday was worse than usual. Or at least it felt that way, since Dean no longer had any hope of getting to drive for the rest of the week. He donned his apron and gloves, gritting his teeth as he waited for Zachariah to start gloating. Miraculously, though, he didn't. Credit where credit is due, thought Dean. He's not as awful as he could be.

They drove around the grounds, collecting garbage bags, in what was now a familiar route. (Dean noticed, though, that Zachariah had gone back to doing the left side of the grounds before the right side. Presumably to avoid running into the Bible study group waiting outside La Cascade again.) As they drove back up the road from the men's silence and auxiliaire houses, Dean absentmindedly leaned against the door, feeling the air moving past his hand as he dangled an arm out the open window. Zachariah slowed down and stopped next to a couple of girls walking on the side of the road.

“Where are you from?” he called past Dean. Dean knit his brow. It was a perfectly normal conversation starter here, but why was he stopping to chat with two random girls?

“Slovenia,” one of the girls answered, with a smile.

“Is it usual in Slovenia,” Zachariah sneered, “to walk in the street when there is a sidewalk right there?” He pointed out the driver's side window to the sidewalk, past the shrubberies, on the other side of the street.

The girls' faces fell. Dean clenched his fist. He should have known that Zachariah's good behavior wouldn't last long. Dean didn't want to be silently complicit with this douchebaggery, but didn't particularly feel like starting a fight with Zachariah by challenging him in front of field people again. So he simply rolled his eyes (with his head turned so only the girls could see) and moved the hand that was hanging outside the truck in a “wanker” motion (which he presumed was pretty universal). The other girl clearly noticed, and failed miserably at suppressing a grin.

“Is something funny?” Zachariah demanded, raising his voice.

Dean made a face with his eyes crossed and his lips in an exaggerated duck face, and made a talking mouth gesture with his hand. At this, both girls started cracking up.

Zachariah slammed the gear shift in a huff, and yanked it harder than necessary as he sped off. The girls were still laughing behind them, and speaking to each other rapidly in what was presumably Slovene. Zachariah was flushed red. Dean was still facing the window, so Zachariah wouldn't see his smirk.

Zachariah was still in a sour mood (or perhaps just back to his normal mood – it was hard to tell) after work, when he got back to the Maison d'Ange common room and couldn't find any more Quadro Pockets among the other cookies. He stormed up the stairs. Dean also had to go upstairs, to get his shower stuff.

“Why are you following me?” Zachariah snapped at Dean when they reached the second floor landing.

“Oh, I was hoping to see if you had a secret stash of Quadro Pockets,” Dean sassed. “But since you caught me, I guess I'll just have to ransack your room when you're not there.”

“If you ever come into my room,” Zachariah said, waving a threatening finger in Dean's face, “you'll regret it.”

“Trust me, there is nothing I'd enjoy less than rummaging through your dirty underwear,” Dean replied. “I'm just messing with you. I'm not 'following you,' I'm going upstairs to grab my shower stuff. Other people have rooms up here too,” he finished in a tone of voice as if he was talking to a five-year-old. Dean turned toward the next flight of stairs, ignoring the death glare Zachariah shot him.

Dean re-entered the common room, fresh out of the shower and in clean clothes. He noticed that there was another name on the “Auxiliaire Music Night Sign-Ups” sheet now. Victor, on the guitar – no surprise there. He wondered how many sign-ups the other houses were getting.

“…better than the kind you can get here, anyway,” came Zachariah's voice. Dean looked over to the table, where Zachariah was spreading a slice of baguette with Nutella from a large jar.

“What's the difference?” asked Adam.

“How much hazelnut, how much sugar,” Zachariah answered, with his mouth full. “How creamy it is. German is best. That's why I bring it from home.” How convenient, thought Dean, that the best Nutella just so happened to be from his own home country.

Toshi appeared at the front door. Seeing Zachariah's snack, he asked, “Is there bread? Or just stone?”

Zachariah gave Toshi a withering look. “If it had all turned to stone, would I be eating it?” Toshi gave a sheepish smile, then went to the kitchen drawer where the tea bags were kept. Zachariah screwed the lid back on his Nutella jar, and carried it back up the stairs.

“So much for 'common life,'” Adam mumbled.

After lunch Dean continued re-checking various buildings for signs of a night hag. It seemed pretty pointless, since few types of hags left evidence behind anyway, but he had to do something to further the hunt, not to mention fill his afternoons. Between Tuesday, yesterday, and today, Dean managed to search around the outsides of every building and the insides of some of the more easily accessed ones, like La Boutique and Wáȟwala Bláye. Once again he found himself out scouting when teatime rolled around.

A crowd of field people was assembled outside the food pavilion, and another crowd of them sat around the area, sipping tea from bowls. As Dean walked past the covered patio where he'd eaten so many meals during his field week, he caught sight of a familiar person sitting cross-legged on a bench, tea sitting forgotten beside her as she read something from a three-ring binder on her lap.

“Hi, stranger!” Dean exclaimed, plopping himself down on the bench next to Charlie, jostling the bench enough that her bowl of tea threatened to slosh over.

“Dean!” she said, looking up from her binder and giving him a big smile.

“What's this?” asked Dean, snatching the binder out of her lap. “Are you doing homework? Now, during the summer?” He looked down at the printed pages and scanned over a few lines. “Remus raised his hand to caress Sirius's cheek. 'I know,' he whispered, before leaning in to–” Dean snapped the binder shut. “It's not homework,” he said, quickly handing it back to Charlie.

Charlie took the binder back mechanically, and when Dean looked over he saw that she'd gone pale. Oh, right. He'd just caught her reading porn. Gay porn. At a monastery. Yeah, most people probably wouldn't react very well to that. He forced a smile despite the awkwardness of the situation, desperate to show her that she had nothing to worry about with him. He really had no place judging another person's fantasy fodder, given the weird as hell stuff he'd found and, ahem, “enjoyed” while perusing hentai.

“Well hey, whatever floats your boat, right?” Dean said. “I guess you fans have to read something to pass the time before the next book is released, even if it is just stuff you write yourselves.”

Charlie visibly relaxed. “Hey, don't knock it til you've tried it,” she said. “There's some great stuff, if you know where to look. Better than some of the dreck that gets published.”

Dean had to admit, he didn't know nearly enough about the topic to argue with her. So he just shrugged. “Well, I guess it's gotta be halfway decent, if you printed it out to read here.”

“Exactly,” said Charlie with a smug yet playful smile. “So,” she continued, obviously trying to change the subject. “How's your first week as an auxiliaire?”

“Well…” Dean replied with a mock grimace. “Do they always haze the newbies with garbage duty?”

Charlie actually laughed. “You know, I didn't think of it but maybe they do! I mean, not always rubbish, but something unpleasant. When I was first an auxiliaire, my first job was cleaning the toilets.”

Dean groaned in sympathy. “That must be a real fun job.”

“Oh yes, lots of fun,” said Charlie. “You never know what you'll find when you open the door!”

“Hey, speaking of being an auxiliaire before, did you get into the house you wanted?”

“Oh thank God, yes,” replied Charlie. “Maison du Baptême, not Maison de la Vierge. No awful 'virgin' jokes!”

Dean clapped her on the back. “Well congrats on that,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said with mock seriousness. “I worked very hard at it.” A brief silence passed between the two of them. “So…” Charlie said, before taking a deep breath. “You really don't have a problem with…” She nodded her head at the binder.

“Psh,” Dean said, with a dismissive hand gesture. “Hey, if you say it's well written, I'll take your word for it.”

Charlie gave him an incredulous look. “Not the part I'm talking about, Dean.” She wasn't all pale like before, but Dean could tell from the way she was biting her lip that she was nervous.

Dean hesitated for a moment. “I'd be a hypocrite if I did,” he said. There was just enough ambiguity to that response for it to be safe.

Charlie grinned broadly. “I knew it!” she said. “I mean, I don't think anyone else would be able to tell,” she hastened to add. “But we can spot our own, you know?”

Now it was Dean's turn to bite his lip. That was not the response he'd been expecting, and he suddenly felt like there was a giant spotlight shining on him.

Charlie saw the way Dean tensed up, and leaned away from him just a tiny bit, but enough for Dean to notice. “Unless, oh shit, unless you didn't mean–” She picked the binder up off her lap and clutched it to her chest. “I thought–” she stammered.

“No, I mean, yes, I mean–” Dean wanted to assuage her fears again, but actually talking about this was completely new territory for him. He was fine with doing, but talking? That was a whole different ball game. If this had to happen, why couldn't it be in private where he didn't have to worry about a hundred strangers overhearing? But it was happening here and now, so he just had to trust the general din to shield them from any eavesdroppers.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Yes. Kinda. I mean, I have. I do. With, you know.” There it was, out in the open. More or less. “But not only with– I mean, also with–”

“Oh,” Charlie cut in. “So you're bee.” She said it all matter-of-fact, like it was no big deal.

Dean blinked. “Bee?” he repeated.

“Yeah, bee,” said Charlie, putting her binder back down on her lap. “You know, someone who likes both–”

“Oh, 'bi'!” Dean said. “Huh, I guess we pronounce it differently.” Then he realized what he'd just said. “But I'm, I mean, I don't– I don't really like to label…”

“…is that a euphemistic way of saying you really are bi?” Charlie teased, bumping into him with her shoulder.

Dean held his hands up like he was comparing the weights of two items. “I mean, I guess, technically, you could, maybe, say that,” he confessed. “So, uh, that means you're…”

“Just into girls,” Charlie rushed to finish the sentence. She put one hand up defensively and her eyes had gone wide, as if the mere thought of dating a man was startling and unnerving. “I mean, no offense, guys just aren't my thing.”

“None taken,” Dean said with a chuckle. “But wait, what about the…” He pointed at the binder of fanfic.

“I told you, it's a really good story! And besides, this one’s only rated PG-13. It's set when the Marauders were 7th years, and Remus– oh that's right, you don't even know who the Marauders are, do you.” Dean shook his head, with a bewildered look on his face. “Besides,” Charlie continued, “not everything in here is Remus and Sirius. I found one crossover fic where Hogwarts is on Dantooine, and Princess Leia and Hermione–”

“Woah, don't overload me with whatever next level craziness you're talking now,” Dean said, putting his hands up defensively.

Charlie playfully rolled her eyes. “Ok fine, I can corrupt you at your own pace.” She glanced at her watch, and stood up so suddenly that the bench bounced under Dean. “Oh shoot,” she exclaimed. “I'm almost late for my shift in the big kitchen!” She gave Dean a quick hug and then darted off, binder in hand, only pausing to call back over her shoulder “See you later, Dean!”

Back at the Maison d'Ange courtyard, Eliasz and Gazsi were teaching Vitalik and Toshi how to play a game that involved throwing baseball-sized metal balls toward a golfball-sized ball on the ground a few yards away. It reminded Dean of bocce, which strangely enough, he'd learned in gym class at one of the many schools he attended as a kid.

“You are not hit by a pétanque ball, are you?” asked Juraj as Dean entered the common room.

“I don't think he'd still be walking if he was,” rebutted Ash. “Those things could do some real damage!”

Victor plucking at his guitar was a familiar sight by now. Dean wondered if the complex flamenco tune he was playing was practice for tomorrow's music night, or if Victor just enjoyed torturing his fingers. He also wanted to ask why a Portuguese guy was playing Spanish music, but didn't want to disrupt Victor's concentration. And besides, he figured, there's no rule that people can only play music from their own country. Hell, by that logic, he'd be banned from singing along to Zep or Def Leppard! What would he listen to then, friggin' REO Speedwagon?

Dean's nerves were still frayed from his conversation with Charlie, but this slice of normalcy – or what passed for normalcy around here, at least – served as a much needed reminder that just because he'd said the word “bi” out loud didn't mean that anything had changed. No one else even knew except for Charlie, and given how nervous she'd been too, she clearly wasn't going to go around blabbing to everyone.

There was the sound of shoes coming down the stairs, and Castiel appeared in the doorway. He made himself a bowl of tea and took a seat at the table next to Ash. He sat awfully close to Ash, in fact. Much closer than Dean would have, given all the spare room around the table. Then Cas pulled a tea biscuit out of the basket in front of him, and Dean put aside the foolish notion. He just wanted to be close to the cookies, obviously. Didn't Europeans observe less personal space than Americans, anyway? Dean just had gay on the brain right now. Besides, Ash was perfectly decent looking, but Castiel was way out of his league. With that perfectly tousled hair and those blue eyes and– Dean shook his head. He definitely had gay on the brain.

The guys who had been playing pétanque outside came back in. Gazsi put the bag of balls on the bookshelf's lowest shelf, then headed upstairs. He was accompanied by Vitalik. Eliasz sat on the bench next to Victor – sort of close, Dean noted, if you take into account the space required by the guitar's neck. Toshi toed off his shoes at the door as if it was second nature, which given his Japanese background, it probably was.

“Careful,” said Ash. “If you leave your shoes out for too long, they might end up in Brother Scott's art project!” Dean remembered the up-cycled shoe planters at Wáȟwala Bláye and chuckled. Toshi cracked a small grin, too, as he set about preparing some tea.

Juraj suddenly looked up from the book he was reading. “Toshi, how do you say 'I love you' in Japanese?”

Toshi looked confused, but obliged him. “'Ai shiteru.' Or, more often, 'suki dayou.'”

Juraj nodded thoughtfully, as if this answered some deep riddle he'd been contemplating. There were footsteps coming down the stairs, and Gazsi re-appeared. “Gazsi, what is 'I love you' in Hungarian?” Juraj immediately asked him.

“'Szeretlek,'” Gazsi answered.

“And in Russian?” Juraj asked Castiel.

“'Ya lyublyu tebya,'” said Cas. “Or, 'ya lyublyu vas.' It depends if you use formal or informal 'you.'”

“'Yellow blue bus?'” Dean asked. That was what it had sounded like Cas had said, at least.

“'Ya lyublyu vas,'” Cas repeated.

“Yeah that's what I said,” said Dean. “'Yellow blue bus.'” Cas gave a small chuckle.

Victor hit a sour note on his guitar and gave an exasperated sigh. “I have never understood why people always want to know how to say 'I love you.' Why not something more useful, like 'hello'? I don't know about you, but I don't go around saying 'I love you' to people I've just met!”

Dean rushed up to Castiel and flung his arms wide, as if baring his soul (and also, nearly smacking Ash in the face). “Yellow blue bus, Cas! Yellow blue bus!” He gave Cas a wink, then leaned over his shoulder to grab a packet of cookies from the basket on the table. When he stood back up, Dean could see that Cas was pointedly looking down at his knotted bracelet and turning pink, but grinning in spite of himself.

Balthazar was late to supper. He moseyed on down the stairs into the courtyard and over to the dining area after the classical music had stopped, and the talking had begun. He took a seat near the end of the table, next to Juraj, who remarked “Ah, he joins us at supper!”

“Let me guess,” said Ash. “You were with Julianna.”

“She was helping me learn the Polish prayers!” Balthazar protested.

Dean gave the obligatory “So that's what they call it these days!” much to Ash and Juraj's amusement.

“Hey, Polish can be tricky,” Alfie piped up. “At least, as an English speaker, the letters are the same but we pronounce just enough of them differently that it keeps me off-kilter.”

“Thank you!” exclaimed Balthazar, as he helped himself to a big spoonful of mashed potatoes.

“That said,” continued Alfie, “literally no one is buying your dirty, dirty lies.” Balthazar flushed, and Ash and Juraj cracked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * A friend demanded that I work in a reference to REO Speedwagon. I hope you're happy, Ross :-P
>   * Pronunciations:
>     * [Ya lyublyu tebya](https://translate.google.com/#ru/en/Ya%20lyublyu%20tebya) (informal “you”)
>     * [Ya lyublyu vas](https://translate.google.com/#ru/en/Ya%20lyublyu%20vas) (formal “you”)
>   * I do not, at this time, have any plans to write a sequel to Polish Prayers. But hypothetically, if I ever do, it's totally going to be called “Yellow Blue Bus.”
>   * In this chapter, Dean kind of dances around the idea of bisexuality as “attraction to both men and women.” But that's a problematic and painfully out-of-date definition. For decades, the bi community has defined it as “attracted to both the same gender and other gender(s)” or “attracted to two or more genders.” (Here, [have some](http://destielhiseyesopened.tumblr.com/post/174986182336/qwertybard-slurhater-seriously-though) [tumblr links](http://destielhiseyesopened.tumblr.com/post/158419039060/uoblgbtq-final-bi-myth-of-the-week-with-a-bonus) [about it](http://destielhiseyesopened.tumblr.com/post/79845974794/rockemsockemrocket-bisexualsaregreat-bisexual).) But I wasn't so sure that it would be realistic for Dean to know about non-binary genders at this point, hence his outdated understanding.
> 



	15. Week Two, Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Heureux qui s'abandonne à toi, ô Dieu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrTLu4IjdSk) (French)
>   * Music:
>     * [First movement from “Winter” by Antonio Vivaldi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6bKdApUWLk), performed by Casti– uh, I mean Viktor Barinov
> 


The next morning, Dean awoke to the sound of someone banging on wood. He rolled over and held the pillow over his ears, but the damage was done – he was awake.

“Wake up, sleepy-head!” came Castiel's voice. “You will be late for morning prayers!”

Shit. He'd absentmindedly left his door open last night. Cas must have seen him still in bed, and decided to be “helpful.” Dean sighed. Time to play his part.

“Thanks Cas,” he groaned, throwing off the covers and stumbling to his feet. He stretched and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, then bent down to pick up the jeans he'd left on the floor the night before. When he stood up again to make his way to the armoire for a clean shirt, he noticed Cas still standing in the doorway, with a peculiar look on his face. His mouth was open and his eyes wide, yet Dean sensed a tinge of fear there too. Weird, he thought to himself, with all the eloquence he could manage before coffee. Weird, dorky little guy.

When Cas saw him staring back, he blinked a couple of times as if coming out of a trance, said “I'll see you there,” then turned and darted off.

Morning prayers were pretty much like the afternoon and evening prayers Dean had gone to. He recognized a few of the songs, while others were brand new to him. “Heureux qui s'abandonne à toi, ô Dieu, dans la confiance du cœur. Tu nous gardes dans la joie, la simplicité, la miséricorde,” went one of the songs from the orange sheet of new songs which weren't in the official songbook yet.

A couple of songs after the period of silence, however, there was something different. A number of brothers went and stood at points throughout the church, holding bowls of bread wafers. Well over half of the people in the church stood up and formed long lines which moved quickly as one person, then the next, received a wafer. The bread-bearing brothers closest to the lectern were accompanied by brothers with chalices of wine, held low for people to dip their bread into before eating. The brothers said “corps du Christ” and “sang du Christ” to each individual in turn, and Dean didn't need a French-English dictionary to know what was going on. This was communion, the ritualized consumption of the body and blood of Christ. One of the most sacred things in the entire Christian religion. And he had no plan for what to do.

On one hand, as far as he was concerned it was just bread and wine, and eating it would be good for his cover story. Other auxiliaires might start to wonder if they saw him just sitting there. On the other hand, though, it just felt wrong. This was really important to these people, so it seemed pretty disrespectful to participate when he didn't believe in all that stuff.

After a few moments of indecision, Dean did the best thing he could think of. He got up and walked up the aisle on one side of the church, down the aisle on the other side, and sat back down again. There. Anyone who saw him walking around would assume he was going to or coming from communion, and in the chaos of everyone walking to or from this brother's or that brother's station, no one would notice that he didn't actually get in line to receive anything.

The service ended a couple of songs later, and everyone spilled out of the church to go get breakfast. Dean felt proud of his solution to the communion dilemma, and almost regretted that there was no one who could appreciate his cleverness.

Zachariah wasn't at Caerwys when Dean got there. He wasn't there when the teenagers arrived and suited up, either. Maybe he was sick, Dean thought with a tinge of schadenfreude. Maybe Dean would have to drive that damn stick shift after all, he thought with trepidation.

Björn appeared in the enclosure and elucidated the situation. “Zachariah can't be here today, so I'll be doing the rubbish collection route with you.”

Dean held back the urge to jump for joy.

Up at Alfena, Dean loaded up the garbage as usual, while Björn grabbed the recyclables like Zachariah usually did. At the women's silence house, it fell to Dean to grab the two bags by the curb, again as usual. Once they got to the main grounds, though, if there were more than two of three bags at a pick-up location, Björn would get out and work alongside Dean until they'd gotten them all. So there isn't actually a rule that the driver gets to slack off, thought Dean. That's just Zachariah being a dick. As usual. Quelle surprise.

“Dean, did you see the note for you on the board?” Domingo interrupted Dean while he was setting the table for lunch. (Technically he had plenty of time to set the table while everyone else was at midday prayers, but Dean didn't want to make it obvious that he wasn't planning on going.)

“No, a note? Thanks, I'll check it out when I'm done here.”

Sure enough, there was a slip of paper with Dean's name on it stuck to the whiteboard. Brother Nathanaël or Gerhard must have dropped it off. The message inside was short. “Today, 3pm –Bobby.”

“Sorry it's been so long since we got together,” Bobby said as he ushered Dean into his room. “Been busy with preparations for the special anniversary week.” The deadline wasn't looming yet, but still, it put extra pressure on them. “Brother Marcel's been doing his best to free up my time to work on the hunt, but I've gotta keep up appearances with the other brothers just like you've gotta do with the auxiliaires. And they've been running me ragged this week.

“Anyway, find anything interesting over the past few days?” Bobby asked.

“Just a handful of more things that _aren't_ there,” answered Dean. “The only wet footprints are near the showers, and the only smell of moss and dirt is down by La Cascade. No big black dogs with metal paws, no old fat women lurking suspiciously outside the church.”

Bobby rifled through their notes from last time. “So that re-affirms that it's probably not a kikimora or a batibat. And it rules out the Slavic nocnitsa, and the pesanta from Catalonia. Oh, and I heard back from local farms – no cattle mutilations, so the lietuvēns is still unlikely.”

The two of them pored over books for a while, occasionally punctuating the silence with a “Maybe it's– wait, no…” or a “How about– dammit, doesn't fit.”

“Could be a vandella, from Ethiopia. That's a demon or vampire which– ah, never mind, we already ruled both of those out.” Dean sighed. “What critters haven't we ruled out, again?”

Bobby searched for the right piece of paper, then read off the list. “Let's see… Inguma, the Basque god of dreams. Which we're really hoping it's not. Probably not a kikimora, but there are so many variations in the lore that it's hard to say. Looks like that's it.”

“Damn,” said Dean. “I thought there were more. Here's a possibility, though. Phi Am, a ghost from Thailand. According to this, it may even leave bruises on its victim. Any bruising been reported?”

“Not that I know of, but ' _may_ leave bruises' isn't particularly convincing. I'll add it to the list.” They flipped through pages in silence again, until Bobby spoke up. “I don't suppose you've seen anyone walking around wearing seven red caps, have you?”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Nah, and I think that would be pretty noticeable.”

“I figured as much,” said Bobby. “And there definitely haven't been any reports of the night hag tearing its victims' skin with its fingernails. So I think it's safe to say it's not an ammuttadori from Sardinia.”

“Speaking of hats though, it could be an Alp. That's a German elf that can go invisible and shape-shift, and always wears a hat.”

“That one'll go on the list too, then,” replied Bobby.

After another half hour of scouring the tomes, they were both ready to call it a day. Before they left, though, Dean paused. “Hey, uh, Bobby?” He rubbed the back of his neck and looking at a tree outside the window.

“Yeah, boy?” said Bobby, turning back to look at Dean.

“Um, I kinda got dragged to morning prayers today, and I was wondering, uh, what should I do when you're all doing communion?”

Bobby's eyes went wide, and he leaned forward. “You didn't take it, did you? Please tell me you didn't take it!”

“No, I didn't, I swear! I–” Dean stopped when he noticed that Bobby was holding his sides and laughing.

“Nah, I'm just messing with you, boy! As far as I'm concerned, it's fine if you take it, and fine if you don't. But then again, the church I grew up in had open communion. The priest used to say, 'All who are spiritually hungry are welcome at God's table.' No rule that you had to be Christian, even. But the official rules here are that the eucharist is for baptized Christians who believe that 'in the eucharist, it is Christ who gives himself to us, and Christ whom we receive.' And lemme tell you, a lot of thought went into formulating those exact words.

“Now your mom insisted on getting you and that brother of yours baptized when you were tykes.” Dean looked a bit surprised, so Bobby explained. “One time when John dropped the two of you off with that pastor friend of his, he mentioned that he was the guy who'd baptized you two. Anyway, that takes care of the first requirement. As for what you do or don't believe, that's between you and God. So go ahead and do whatever you feel called to do.”

Dean pondered for a moment. “But if I don't take communion, won't the other auxiliaires get suspicious?”

“Eh, I doubt they're paying that much attention to who is or isn't getting up, to be honest. And if they do notice,” Bobby shrugged, “they might just figure that you're feeling scrupulous and wanna go to confession first.

“Anyway,” he continued after a short pause. “Everyone's welcome to take a piece of blessed bread. So you can always go do that, instead.”

“What blessed bread?” Dean asked. He'd been so conflicted over the eucharist that he hadn't noticed anything else going on.

“A handful of auxiliaires hold baskets with pieces of ordinary bread, which have had a prayer said over them. Not the eucharistic prayer, just a simple prayer for love and peace and all that good stuff. There are no restrictions whatsoever on who can receive that. Any faith, no faith, doesn't matter. Some folks receive the eucharist and then take a piece of blessed bread too. That way, everyone can participate in the community-building part of sharing a 'meal' together, even if they don't want to participate in the body of Christ part.”

 

Dean relaxed a bit. That sounded like a perfect compromise for his situation. “So you all really believe in that thing about the bread being the body of Christ, huh?” asked Dean.

“Well like I said, the words we use were very carefully chosen. They clearly allude to the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, but won't necessarily alienate people from different traditions.

“Me, I accept whole-heartedly that Jesus is present in the eucharist – to whatever extent that's possible. I just don't claim to know what that extent is – I sign a blank check and hand it off to God. If God's the sort to directly intervene and turn the bread and wine into actual flesh and blood, fantastic. If God's more hands-off and Jesus is truly present in a symbolic way, excellent. If God ever wants to clue me in then I'd be mighty curious to hear what he has to say, but in the meantime, I don't stress about it. Jesus is there somehow, and that's good enough for me. Might sound like a cop-out, but it's the most honest answer I can give and I dare say God can't blame me for being honest.”

Bobby's answer was clever, Dean would give him that. It was a little weird hearing a brother say he didn't know something faithy, though. He'd figured they were all experts in that sort of thing. But hey, Bobby had said that they were pretty ordinary guys when all's said and done. Just ordinary guys who start each day by taking the body of a man into their mouths, but not in a sexy way. Dean didn't quite see the appeal.

It was 10pm, and the room was packed with people and musical instruments. Shaanti turned out to be a room that was part of Nyumba, but had its own entrance from the garden outside. There were a handful of chairs, but most of the auxiliaires were sitting on tables, on the floor, or just standing. There was an area near one wall that was kept clear, with a chair, a music stand, and a desk lamp set up as a makeshift spotlight. An electric keyboard stood off to the side, ready to be moved in front for anyone who needed it.

Dean looked around. Despite the small size of the room, it was packed so full that it was difficult to find specific individuals in the crowd. He finally located Charlie near the far wall, though, and waved. She enthusiastically waved back, then pointed to him while speaking to the blonde woman next to her. Dean figured that must be another Baptême girl. He wasn't surprised that he didn't recognize any other girls, but he was a little surprised at how many other boys he didn't recognize. They must be from Maison d'Esprit, he figured. He hadn't really done the math to figure out how many auxiliaires there must be in total, but if there were fifteen (and room for at least five more) in Maison d'Ange, there could easily be between sixty and eighty altogether. And it looked like most of them had come out for music night.

After a few opening remarks by the two Vierge girls who'd organized the evening, which Dean mostly tuned out, the first performer took the floor. There were two or three from each house (four from Vierge) and they were all pretty good. Including, surprisingly enough, the strange little French dude named Garth (Dean recognized him as the Night Hospitality guard from the other night) who played the Star Wars cantina song on kazoo, accompanied by a Scottish guy named Fergus on keyboard.

But a few acts really brought the house down. Anna, a Baptême girl from Northern Ireland, did an a cappella rendition of “Amazing Grace” which redefined the phrase “voice of an angel.” Victor did, in fact, play the flamenco song he'd been practicing on his guitar in the d'Ange common room. Benjamine, an Algerian Vierge girl, played the finale to Tchaikovsky's “1812 Overture” on the keyboard, with her Italian friend Bela popping inflated paper bags in lieu of cannons (to uproarious laughter from the audience). And Andy, a d'Esprit boy from England, performed Emerson, Lake & Palmer's version of “Hoedown” on violin, with Benny from Andorra playing the drum part on a 20-liter plastic pickle tub.

But the real show-stopper, as far as Dean was concerned, was Castiel with his accordion. Dean didn't know what to expect when Cas took the floor, the bulky instrument strapped to his chest. Probably gonna play some sort of bouncy, mildly painful polka, he figured. But instead, Cas announced that he was going to play the first movement from “Winter” by Antonio Vivaldi. He moved the music stand off to the side, placed his glasses on it, and took a seat. After taking a couple seconds to position himself comfortably on the chair, he paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and began to play.

The song started off quietly, a pulsing rhythm building tension until the melody burst forth in a loud rush. Dean found himself watching intently as Castiel's long fingers danced across the accordion buttons. When Cas wasn't watching his fingers to ensure they hit their targets, he closed his eyes, turned his head to the side and tilted it back, exposing the smooth, unblemished skin of his neck. That skin is begging to be kissed and bitten and marked up, came a thought to Dean, unbidden. The pulsing, driving rhythm of the music, combined with the vision of skin shifting over muscle every time Cas moved his head, sent a jolt of electricity straight down Dean's spine. And when Cas bit his lip in concentration, Dean inhaled so quickly that the person next to him glanced over at the sound. Now that's just downright obscene, Dean thought to himself. What the fuck Dean, he continued, you're getting all hot and bothered over a wannabe priest with an accordion! But when the piece ended, he clapped so hard that Cas looked right at him, before quickly looking down to hide a smile.

“So, uh, you were really good tonight,” Dean said as he and Castiel were climbing the stairs back up to their respective rooms.

“I was afraid maybe everyone had left before I played,” Cas replied. “Because I was so late in order.”

“Nah, there were plenty of people still there. But if anyone left,” Dean added, “it was their loss.” He flashed Cas a quick grin.

Cas blushed a little. “Thank you, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * So, um, fun fact. Cas's accordion is literally the entire reason this fic exists. Cause I decided that if I couldn't act on the thoughts I was having about the pretty Russian accordion player, then goddammit, my OTP would!
>   * The “20-liter plastic pickle tub” is an homage to Rent ;-)
> 



	16. Week Two, Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Bless the Lord](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4Svh-9ohg4)
>     * [Sanasi on lamppu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvZpVRLfAbc) (Finnish)
>   * Misc.:
>     * [Augmented fourth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hiwBjp6EZJA#t=8s)
> 


Dean woke up on Saturday and smiled. It was the end of the week. That meant it was his last day collecting garbage, and (hopefully) his last day working with Zachariah. That knowledge energized him. He was dressed and ready to go to morning prayers (he figured it was safest if Castiel saw him going on his own, lest he start making a habit of waking Dean up every morning) before half the house was even up.

Downstairs, Toshi was counting out plates and spoons to set the table for breakfast. Dean helped himself to a bowl of coffee while Toshi was carrying things to the outdoor dining area. With nothing much else to do until the bells calling everyone to morning prayers started ringing, Dean moseyed on outside to enjoy the cool morning air before it heated up. He climbed up to sit on the stone wall that separated the courtyard from the garden, and looked out to the distant fields.

Last night was fun. Sure, it was no seedy bar with cheap booze, hot girls, and easy marks for hustling pool. But for a place like this? It wasn't half bad. Nothing wrong with a little good, clean fun from time to time. As long as you don't make a habit of it.

Those thoughts he'd had about Castiel, though… Those didn't exactly qualify as “clean.” It wouldn't normally have bothered him, but his conversation with Charlie two days ago was still heavy on his mind. Having the hots for guys, even hooking up with them, it was no big deal when it was just two straight dudes having a little fun. Maybe blowing off some steam, which god knew he needed after most hunts. But if Charlie was right, if he was actually bi? Didn't that change things? He felt like it must. Sure he liked guys, but he wasn't, like, _gay_. He didn't have relationships with guys, just the occasional roll in the hay. Perfectly straight.

Dean heard the Maison d'Ange door creak on its hinges. He turned to look, and saw Dino and Adam coming outside and starting to make their ways to the gate. Dean listened intently for a moment. The bells always sounded faint from this distance, but he was sure he would have heard them in the morning stillness. Dean glanced at his watch. There were still a couple minutes to spare. He headed back inside and washed out his coffee bowl. He was still rinsing off suds when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and Castiel appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning,” said Castiel, as he made his way toward the door to the outside.

“Morning,” Dean replied, his voice a tad higher than he'd expected.

They were quickly joined by Alfie and Eliasz. And as if on cue, the bells started to ring. Dean stacked his bowl on top of the others to dry, and joined the others in their migration outside.

“Bless the Lord, my soul, and bless God's holy name. Bless the Lord, my soul, who leads me into life.”

Dean sat next to Castiel during morning prayers, since being seen here by him was the whole reason he'd gotten up early to come to church, anyway.

“Sanasi on lamppu, valo askeleilani.”

The church was crowded, as usual, despite the early hour. The auxiliaires were packed in nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. During the silence, Dean was acutely aware of how close together he and Cas were. Their knees brushed together, and Dean could swear he felt the warmth coming off of Cas's body. It was distracting. Dammit, he was in a church! This was the last place he should be thinking about feeling another man's warmth! But even that thought brought on a rush of imagined sights and sensations. Oh, he was so going straight to hell for this.

When communion started, Dean stood up a bit too fast. Way to not draw attention to yourself, he thought. He tried to look casual as he joined the throng of people going to get in line to receive the eucharist. When he reached the back of the line, though, he peeled off and went to get a piece of bread from an auxiliaire with a basket, instead. He didn't see many other people taking blessed bread, though. He started to wonder if it was seen as a cheap knock-off communion. But as he weaved his way through the crowd to get back to his seat, he saw Brother Marcel waving down an auxiliaire and taking a piece of blessed bread, too.

After breakfast, Dean headed over to Caerwys for his last day collecting garbage. Sadly, Zachariah was back today. Dean sighed, donned his apron and gloves, and climbed into the passenger seat. They drove around in silence, not needing to talk in order to take care of their now-familiar task. Collect garbage bags, bring to the compactor, lather, rinse, repeat. Then celebrate a job well done with tea and cookies.

“I'm going back now,” Zachariah said, the first thing he'd said to Dean all day. He shoved the garbage truck key at Dean. “Give this to Björn when he gets back.” He was out the door before Dean could protest. Son of a bitch.

“Okay, who wants to help me carry this back to the kitchen?” Dean asked the teenagers, as they were throwing out their cookie wrappers and putting their empty tea bowls back into the crate. A girl volunteered. Dean had them go through the main Caerwys building so he could give Björn the key back, but Björn was nowhere to be seen. Great. On their way past the Caerwys vehicles, Dean saw the empty Kohvik recycling buckets still in the back of the truck. God dammit, Zachariah didn't even bother taking those back where they belonged, and that was on the way back to Maison d'Ange anyway! Well, Dean sighed, he had to come back to find Björn for the key, anyway.

When Dean got back from the kitchen, he still couldn't find Björn. Might as well drop the buckets off at Kohvik while I wait, Dean figured. But Björn still wasn't there when Dean got back again. A group of young adults were in the courtyard, though, washing paint off brushes and roller trays.

“Can I help you?” asked a young woman with curly black hair.

“Have you seen Björn?” Dean asked in return.

“Not recently,” she said.

“Da– darn,” said Dean, catching himself from swearing, just in case she was the uptight sort. “I'm supposed to give this back to him,” he said, holding the key up.

“Oh, I can take that,” she said.

“You sure that's allowed?” Dean asked. He didn't know this girl, after all.

“Yeah of course,” she said. “I'll be here for a while, but there's no reason you should have to stay if you're done!”

Dean hesitated. She sounded confident enough. And she looked old enough to be an auxiliaire, so she must be the leader for one of the other Caerwys jobs. And Dean really didn't wanna have to hang around forever. Screw it, he thought. This place is all about trust anyway, right? He gave her the key. “What's your name?” he asked, so just in case there were any problems, he would know who he'd passed it off to.

“Maria,” she replied with a smile. “How about you?”

“I'm Dean,” he said. “From America,” he added after a second. That seemed to be a pretty standard part of introducing one's self around here.

“I'm from Spain,” Maria filled in. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Dean replied, extending his hand. They shook. “Well, thanks for taking care of that for me. Take care,” he finished.

“Have a good day,” Maria said. She sauntered off toward the office as Dean turned and left.

“Dean, you have a phone call,” called Ash. That was odd, Dean thought. Bobby had just left him notes in the past. Maybe there was something urgent. Another attack? No, that didn't make sense. He wouldn't have waited until just before supper time to tell Dean if there'd been an attack last night.

Dean walked up to the landing on the second floor, and picked up the phone receiver that Ash had left off the hook. “Hello?”

“Hello, Dean? This is Björn from Caerwys.” Dean's stomach sank. “I have not received the key for the rubbish truck. Do you still have it?”

“I gave it to one of the other auxiliaires. Maria,” Dean explained. “From Spain,” he added when Björn didn't respond right away.

“I do not know any 'Maria,'” Björn replied. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “I need to get that key back,” he continued.

Dean looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes until supper. “I'll find it as soon as supper is over, I promise,” he said.

“Okay,” Björn said. “I'll be at Caerwys again after supper so just find me there.”

“Loué soit le Seigneur Christ.”

“Qu'il soit loué toujours.”

Dean shot up like a bolt. He had to find Maria and ask what she'd done with the key. He bussed his dishes, thanked his lucky stars he wasn't on washing-up duty tonight, and darted out the gate. He made it to the girls' auxiliaire houses in record time, running through worst-case scenarios in his mind the whole time. There had to be a spare key somewhere, right?

“Are you an auxiliaire?” Dean asked the first young woman he saw. He mentally kicked himself. That's what he should have asked Maria, before giving her the damn key.

“Yes,” replied the woman. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I'm looking for someone. I think she's an auxiliaire, too. Maria? From Spain? It's important.”

“Oh, I know Maria. Do you want me to go get her for you?”

“Yes, please!” answered Dean. Maybe this wasn't a complete disaster, after all.

“Okay, wait here,” she said before disappearing around the corner.

Dean fidgeted as he stood waiting. It felt like it was taking forever, though intellectually he knew that it was probably only a few minutes.

Eventually, another young woman came back around the corner. “Hello?” she said. “I'm Maria. Were you the one looking for me?”

…Or maybe it still was a complete disaster. This wasn't the girl he'd given the key to. This Maria's hair was straight and brown, not curly and black. Dammit, how much of a fool was he? Wasn't “Maria” like the single most popular girls' name in Spain?

“Ah, I was actually looking for a different, Maria,” Dean said. “Are there any other auxiliaires with that name?”

“No, I'm the only one,” she said.

Shit. “Shoot,” Dean said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“It's no trouble. Good luck finding who you're looking for,” said Maria, before she turned to leave.

“Wait, uh, do you know if there's a way to find where a field person is staying?” he asked, hopefully.

“Try asking at Kuća,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“We do not have any way to do that,” said the young man behind the desk at Kuća.

“Darn. Thanks anyway,” said Dean. He turned back to the door and headed up toward Caerwys. If the key had been left in the office there, surely Björn would have found it himself. But Dean was otherwise out of ideas, so he figured what the hell, might as well try the obvious.

Björn wasn't there when Dean entered the building. He made a bee-line for the office. As he'd remembered, there was a pegboard mounted above the desk, with a few dozen keys hanging from hooks. The keys weren't all labelled, and those that were weren't all in English, so Dean had to just go by what the key looked like. It was a wide silver key with a bulky, wooden, cylindrical keychain, light in color, attached by a silver ball chain. And there was a crack up one side of the keychain, he recalled. None of the keys on the pegboard matched that description.

Dean looked down at the desk in desperation. Lo and behold, right there atop the mess of assorted papers, was the key. God fucking dammit. It had been there the whole time he'd been running around on this wild goose chase.

Leaving the office, key in hand, Dean nearly ran right into Björn. “Perfect timing,” said Dean, trying to fake a self-assured grin. “I just found it. It was in the office the whole time!”

“Thank you for your diligence,” Björn replied, taking the key Dean was holding out.

Dean was just glad he wasn't getting chewed out. His dad sure as hell never “thanked him for his diligence” when he fixed problems that he'd created in the first place. “Just a case of honest miscommunication,” Dean said. And boneheadedness, he thought to himself. This is what happens when you try that whole “trust” thing. “I'm glad it didn't cause any serious problems in the long run!” He turned, let out the breath he'd been holding, and headed back to Maison d'Ange.

Zachariah was waiting in the courtyard when Dean got back. He looked positively gleeful. “And what did we learn today? About giving the key to random strangers?”

Dean shot him a glare. “'We learned to not let you shirk your last few duties just so you can get to your Quadro Pocket faster.” And not to be such a shit-for-brains, but he wasn't going to give Zachariah the pleasure of hearing him say that.

Zachariah's expression soured. Dean went inside before he could come up with a witty retort.

The new work assignments for next week were posted on the whiteboard. Dean scanned down the list until he found his name. For tomorrow, Sunday, his assignment just said “minibus” and a time and place to show up. For the rest of the week, he had “Special Project with Brother Robert” (naturally) in the mornings, and “Field Hospitality” in the afternoons. Dean wasn't really sure what “field hospitality” meant, but small text below the assignments gave the time and place for the introductory meeting tomorrow evening. Presumably, he'd learn what his duties entailed there.

Dean was unusually tired for how early it was, but he wasn't about to go to bed at nine o'clock. So he plopped down on one of the benches around the table. He didn't even notice who he was sitting next to until Juraj, seeing the bench bounce under Dean's weight, said “You try to make Castiel fly to outer space, eh?” Dean obliged him with a sleepy chuckle.

“You look tired,” said Cas. “Do you want tea? I was going to make tea for myself, anyway.”

Dean shrugged. “Sure, why not?” His caffeine tolerance could definitely handle a measly cup of tea, even at this hour.

While Cas was heating up the water for tea, Dean turned his attention to a notebook which had been left on the table, along with a pen. Gazsi's name was written on the front, but inside, there were a number of different handwritings. Dean quickly figured out that they were farewell notes to Gazsi, along with each writer's contact information. He must be leaving this Sunday. Not wanting to pry into private messages, and not having gotten to know Gazsi well enough to write anything himself, Dean put the notebook back where he'd found it.

Dean turned his attention to listening in on whatever the other guys at the table were talking about. Victor was explaining the physics of musical harmonies to a rapt Alfie, going over how the lengths of the sound waves correlated with different intervals between notes.

“…so if you cut off half the length of the string, the original string and the shorter string are the same note, one octave apart,” said Victor. He illustrated the concept by plucking a guitar string with and without a finger pressed halfway down its length. “If you cut off a third, the two notes are a perfect fifth, and if you cut off a quarter, it's a perfect fourth,” he continued, demonstrating each interval in turn.

“Remember harmonics? The extra notes in each note you play? Well it's the same pattern. There's an octave between the first harmonic and the second, a perfect fifth between the second harmonic and the third, and so on.

“And this is the order they appear in history, too! The first music was all unison, then the first harmonies were octaves. A little later, perfect fifths were added, then perfect fourths, the major third, et cetera.”

“Wow, the C major chord, C-E-G, was such a big part of how I learned music that I would have thought the third came before the fourth,” said Alfie, as if all this technical music jargon made perfect sense. “Oh, speaking of fourths,” he continued, “where does the 'devil's interval' fit into this? I heard about that on NPR or something, but the details are fuzzy.”

“Ah, that's the augmented fourth,” Victor said. “For example, a C and an F is a perfect fourth. But a C and an F sharp, that's an augmented fourth.”

Alfie nodded along.

“So for a perfect fourth, that's a whole string, and then the same string with a quarter of its length cut off, right? Well you could also call that a 4:3 ratio. The lower the numbers in that ratio, the more harmonious the notes sound together. So a fifth is 3:2, an octave is 2:1... Pretty harmonious, right? Well the augmented fourth is 45:32.” He plucked the interval out on his guitar and yeah, Dean had to agree that it was pretty jarring.

“Because it's so dissonant, it was called the 'devil's interval' and wasn't really used in medieval church music. Claims that it was outright banned are exaggerated, though.”

Dean noticed, for the first time, that Victor wasn't using a guitar pick. Instead, all of the fingernails on his right hand were grown out enough to work as picks themselves. This dude was serious about his art. “I'm guessing this is more than just a hobby for you,” Dean said.

Victor looked over to Dean. “Oh definitely,” he replied. “I just finished a Master's degree at the Conservatory. And I teach music as my job, so it's basically my whole life.”

“I know that feel,” said Dean, absentmindedly.

“Oh yeah?” asked Alfie. “What do you do?”

Shit. He didn't have this part of the cover story worked out. Best to stick with one of his classic answers. “Uh, mechanic. Yeah, when I'm not fixing someone else's car, I'm working on my own. Gotta keep her shipshape!”

Luckily, that was when Castiel returned with two bowls of tea and set one down in front of Dean. “Next time I visit, maybe I bring lapsang souchong and tea infuser to make proper tea. Not just this Lipton in bags,” said Cas.

“Lappa what now?” asked Dean, grateful for the distraction.

“Lapsang souchong – my favorite tea. Tea leaves are smoked, so taste is like campfire.”

“I have a friend back home who says it tastes like bacon,” added Alfie. Then he added in a stage whisper, “It does not taste like bacon!”

“I missed that second part,” said Dean. “I got distracted by 'bacon.'” He turned to Castiel and threw a playful arm around his shoulders. “Hey there, buddy, pal, my very good friend! You're totally gonna bring me some of that lappy soupy bacon tea, right?”

“Sure,” said Cas with a chuckle, which sounded just a wee bit strained to Dean's ear. “You visit Russia, I take you to best tea room in St. Petersburg!”

Dean nearly snorted tea out his nose. Cas didn't know, he reckoned, the alternate meaning of “tea room.” And he definitely wasn't inviting Dean to have sex with him in a public restroom. Which was just as well – Dean preferred a nice soft bed to a cold tile wall, anyway.

Dammit Dean, he thought to himself, you really, really need to stop having these kinds of thoughts about that boy. Besides, he's almost certainly straight, anyway. Shit. Where did that thought come from? “Straight” had nothing to do with it! He was straight, too! Wasn't he?

“Having trouble with that tea, there?” asked Alfie, as Dean sputtered for the second time in less than a minute.

“It just, uh, it just went down the wrong pipe,” Dean covered. He realized that his arm was still around Cas, and removed it in what he hoped was a casual manner. “So, music,” he said, trying to steer things back to a safe topic, meaning one which was neither what he did for a living, nor what carnal acts he wished to do with whom.


	17. Week Two, Sunday

Dean was grateful that he got to sleep in an extra half hour because it was Sunday. He'd stayed up a good bit later than was wise, just hanging out in the common room, chatting with the other guys. Music had led to film soundtracks, which had led to John Williams, which had led to Jurassic Park, the recent Harry Potter movie (with Alfie mirroring Charlie's insistence that Dean really did have to read the books), Indiana Jones, a brief excursion to Schindler's List by Castiel and Alfie (neither Dean nor Victor had seen it), and finally Star Wars. Castiel got especially excited over Star Wars, and Dean was relieved to learn that his excitement was primarily for the original trilogy. (“Will I see Episode III? Yes, of course. But will I like it? Eh, this I am not so sure,” had been Cas's exact words.) Castiel had also promised to play some of the Star Wars soundtrack for them on his accordion sometime, and Dean said that he'd hold him to that.

Dean was also grateful that coffee – and the rest of breakfast – came before church today. He let himself hope that maybe Sunday breakfast for auxiliaires would be special, pancakes or waffles perhaps, but alas it was the same as always. As he spread jam on his baguette, he thought about whether or not he'd go to Sunday Mass. Not, he decided. He'd been to morning prayers the past two days in a row, after all. He just had to get to Nyumba after Mass ended so he could learn what minibus duty entailed.

By the time Dean approached the main part of the grounds, people had already left the church and started going about their last-minute business. For a day of rest, the place actually looked more hectic than usual. Colorful suitcases sat everywhere, evidence of people who had already cleared out of the tents and barracks and were ready to head on home. They stood under the canopy tents near Kuća, near the doorways of Kuća itself, under the staircase to the second floor of Māja, and off in the distance, outside the various doors to the church. Scores of people were dragging suitcases toward the bus stop just down the street. Last Sunday, Dean had been so preoccupied with moving into Maison d'Ange that he hadn't noticed all the pandemonium of the weekly visitors.

A small crowd stood in line at the Lost and Found door, making final attempts to find misplaced items before they left. One empty-handed young man looked disappointed as he left. Two girls talked to each other as they went away, one clutching a book and the other a sweater. Another guy was also leaving, wearing the peculiar outfit that Dean remembered Charlie explaining as the mark of a traveling German tradesman. He was holding a hat which, as Dean watched, he tossed up into the air so it flipped all the way around before landing squarely on his head. Dean wondered if it was the same Wandergeselle he and Charlie had seen two Sundays ago – she'd said they were rare, after all. If it was the same one – and given the unibrow Dean could see clearly from this angle, he was pretty sure it was – Dean thought that maybe he was an auxiliaire from Maison d'Esprit.

When Dean arrived at Nyumba, there was a little old lady at the podium in the homey, wood paneled front room.

“Hi,” said Dean, approaching her. “I'm Dean. I was supposed to report here for minibus duty?”

“Oh good,” said the old lady. “I'll go get Sister Abigail for you.” She tottered away, but was soon replaced by a stately woman with shoulder-length grey hair, a long, navy blue skirt, a simple white blouse with a small, silver, cross-shaped brooch affixed to it, and a burgundy knit shawl draped over her shoulders.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dean,” said Sister Abigail, with a distinct English accent. “Shall we have a seat?” She motioned to a couple of the chairs by one of the tables. Dean sat down.

“Your job today is to drive families from Alfena back to the bus stop, and then to pick up newly arriving families outside Kuća and bring them up to Alfena. They may walk on their own to get to prayers throughout the week, but it's such an awfully long distance when you're carrying luggage.” She smiled at Dean, as if this was some special knowledge the two of them shared.

So, they were trusting Dean to drive again. Apparently his epic failure last week at Caerwys hadn't been passed up the chain of command. He was perfectly fine with having a chance at redemption. Though he was somewhat amused that they didn't trust him to drive garbage around, but did trust him with people's children.

“Do you know the way to Alfena from here?” asked Sister Abigail.

“More or less,” replied Dean. “I know where the garbage gets picked up.”

“Oh good, that's most of the drive right there.” Sister Abigail proceeded to take out a copy of the familiar St. Chuck's map and a piece of scrap paper. Dean nodded along as she sketched the route, complete with the most convenient places to turn around at each end. “You hold onto this, just in case,” she said, sliding the maps across the table to Dean. “Now the new families haven't started arriving yet, but there are probably some of last week's families already waiting for you.” With that, she fished around in her skirt pocket for a moment and produced a key. “It's a white, 1993 Fiat Peugeot J5. But if you have any trouble finding the right vehicle, just remember that it's the only one this key unlocks.” She flashed her conspiratorial smile again. “You're on duty until supper time, with a break for midday prayers and lunch. After supper, someone else will be on duty to help out late-comers. Just park the minibus back in the lot and return the key to whichever sister is at the podium here when you're done.”

Dean took the key and headed out. He would definitely return it to the right place this time – there would be no repeats of last night.

He found the right vehicle without difficulty. Like many of the things here, the minibus was clearly old but kept in good repair. It had two rows of four seats each, in addition to the typical driver's and passenger's seats. The storage space in the back looked awfully small for eight or nine people's worth of luggage, but Dean figured there would probably only be five or six people at a time, and the extra seats could hold any bags that didn't fit in the back. He turned the key and, after a moment, the diesel engine purred to life. Dean managed to pull out onto the main road without stalling once.

Dean spent most of the rest of the day ferrying families to and from Alfena. The few times he did stall out (naturally, always when there were people in the minibus, and never when he was doing a return-trip alone), he just said “Sorry folks, I'm American!” and that seemed to satisfy everyone.

Supper was casual, as it had been last Sunday, with guys coming and eating whenever they had time off from their jobs. Dean felt a slight pang of disappointment that Cas didn't show up before he had to leave for his Field Hospitality meeting.

“Hello, I am Pasquale, the director of Hospitality,” the young Italian man said to the small group of auxiliaires gathered in the room above Māja. “You will be my afternoon Field Hospitality team for this week. Hospitality means helping visitors to enjoy their stay by making them feel welcome. Sometimes people, they do not know where is their Bible study, for example. Or they have forgotten where is their work. So they wander around or just sit in their barrack, and we come and help them find where it is that the community is welcoming them to be right now.”

Well, thought Dean. That's sure putting a positive spin on policing folks' whereabouts. This must be what he'd encountered back in his first week, when a couple of auxiliaires had “helped” him to find “his” Bible study. The whole premise seemed awfully passive aggressive, but hey, at least it wasn't garbage duty.

They would patrol around the main grounds during the afternoon, Pasquale explained, “helping” people find where the official schedule said they belonged. And if they claimed to have no job assignment or Bible study, bring them to Kuća to get one. Dean wondered how often that actually happened, versus how often it was just a bluff to get people to suddenly remember their assignment.

They were also supposed to keep an eye out for contraband – report illegal drugs immediately, and accompany anyone with alcohol to Māja where they could store it until they left. That, at least, sounded like a more or less legitimate thing to police.

On a rather less urgent note, they were also to keep an eye out for clothes lines tied to trees or tents, and tell their owners to please move them over to the fenceposts to avoid damaging the tree bark and tent poles. “Other than that, though, leave the adults pretty much alone. They can follow their schedules without our help,” said Pasquale.

And during midday and evening prayers, they'd try to maintain silence within earshot of the church. “We don't 'invite' people to come to prayers,” Pasquale said. “Prayer is a personal choice. But we do ask that if they don't go to prayers, they at least respect people who do by keeping quiet.” The other rule to enforce was that group activities were not allowed during prayers. “If a kid is kicking a football around the field, leave them alone. But if several people are playing football, they're welcome to continue the game after prayers are over. No one is required to go to prayers, but we don't want competing activities either.” And after evening prayers, people loitering outside the church were to be encouraged to make their way over to Kohvik so there would be less noise disrupting the people who chose to stay later into the night.

“What if someone refuses to follow the rules?” asked an auxiliaire girl.

“Then accompany them to Māja and set up an appointment for them to meet with a brother,” said Pasquale.

“Do they get in trouble?” she continued.

“They just have a conversation,” answered Pasquale. “The brothers want to understand why, and how they can better welcome people.”

Dean found this rather dubious, but decided to let it go in hopes of ending this meeting faster.

Pasquale divided the group into pairs who would work together. Dean got assigned to a blonde girl named Hester. Together they were assigned to patrol during evening prayers, while the other duo was assigned to midday prayers.

“Okay, any more questions? No? Then I will meet you all in front of the church tomorrow, right after lunch.”


	18. Week Three, Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Tu sei sorgente viva](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRgb4hlTFXw) (Italian)
>     * [Señor, que florezca tu justicia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kxO47mE_tJ4) (Spanish)
>   * Pronunciations:
>     * [Kozlik](https://translate.google.com/#ru/en/kozlik) (KOHS-lik)
> 


At some point after Sunday supper but before Monday breakfast, another note for Dean had appeared on the whiteboard. “Monday. 10am. –Bobby”

Brother Nathanaël passed around the new week's chore sign-up sheets. Sweeping the floors was already taken by the time it got around to Dean, so he settled for cleaning the showers. He signed up for a few spots to set the table or wash the dishes, finished his coffee, and hoped the caffeine would kick in before Bobby expected him to do any actual thinking.

“Bad news,” said Bobby as soon as they were safely in his room. “There was another attack last night.”

“So early? But this week's field people just got here! Attacking on the first night, that's just cruel,” said Dean.

“I don't disagree with you there. Though if anything we were overdue, seeing as there was no attack last week.”

Dean sighed. “So, more reading up on different types of night hags, then?”

“Actually,” said Bobby, “I think it might be a good idea right now to look into protective wards. Maybe we can figure out how to stop it temporarily, keep it at bay until we figure out how to defeat it for good.”

“Well I'm game,” said Dean. “At this point, anything sounds better than playing 'Top Ten Reasons Why it's Probably Not a Kikimora!'”

Two hours later, Bobby looked up from the book he was skimming. “I don't know about you, but I've found plenty of potential ways to ward off a night hag.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Dean. “Problem is, none of them would really work here.”

“I was afraid you were gonna say that,” replied Bobby. “Seems most of the wards require the involvement of the person being protected, which doesn't exactly work with the low profile we're trying to keep.”

“Exactly. It would be hard to convince everyone to…” Dean glanced at one of the books lying open next to him. “…sleep with a mirror on their chest, or place a piece of silverware under their pillow, without telling them why.”

“My thoughts precisely,” said Bobby.” Or keep the lights on all night, or turn their pillow and make the sign of the cross on it.”

“What about reciting the Lord's Prayer backwards for a change? We could maybe convince folks it's an old tradition in, uh, Macedonia. Or something.”

Bobby chuckled. “Or Newfoundland, where that ward's actually from. Yeah, I came across that one too. But nah, I don't think they'd buy it, and Brother Martin can't churn out musical settings that quickly. Let's see now, what else did I find? Right, reading the Throne Verse from the Qur'an. Well we do have interfaith events from time to time, and some prominent imams are coming for the anniversary week. But I dare say that outright reading the Qur'an in church would ruffle more than a few feathers.”

Dean let out a breath. “I'm guessing pentagrams are off the table, too.”

“Yeah, I reckon that would freak some of these folks out pretty badly.”

“Amulets blessed by a Buddhist monk,” suggested Dean.

“We have connections with a couple of Buddhist monasteries, but how would we make everyone wear the amulets?” Bobby scratched his beard. “Having a sentry stand watch is supposed to keep it away, but clearly our Night Hospitality teams aren't enough. We could try increasing the number of teams, but I hesitate to suggest that without knowing for sure that it would work.”

“I could start carrying a lemon around with me,” suggested Dean, “so if I stumble across the night hag during the day, I can shove the lemon in its mouth.”

Bobby laughed at that mental image. “We'll keep that in mind, once we have a better idea what it even looks like during the day.”

Dean sighed. “We're having even less success with this than we are with figuring out what kind of hag it is in the first place. At this rate, we might as well summon a baku!”

“I'm gonna assume you're joking, boy,” said Bobby. “Cause you can't keep a baku on a leash. Once it finishes eating up the nightmares, if it's still hungry, it starts in on hopes and desires. Nasty creatures, baku.”

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face. “We're entering week three, and we still don't know what it is, how to kill it, or even how to keep it away. So what are we gonna do now?”

“Well, I do have one more idea,” said Bobby. “But it requires a little bit of outsourcing. I have another old hunting pal who's a Rabbi in Louisiana now. His cousin is a Louisiana Voodoo priestess with a real knack for herbal concoctions. I could call Rufus up and ask him to finally introduce me to Clea, then see if she can whip something up for us.”

“Jewish and Voodoo in one family?” Dean asked.

“Yup, Rabbi Rufus Turner is Jewish on his mom's side and part Catholic, part Voodoo on his dad's. I tell ya, it gave him some real useful connections when we hunted together.”

Dean gave a thoughtful nod.

“We should probably finish up here. The bells will ring for midday prayers soon. Let's see, anything else we should go over?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, “what's with field cop duty?”

Bobby chuckled. “Ah yes, the curiously named 'hospitality' jobs. It's a thankless job, as far as the visitors are concerned, but we brothers really do appreciate you keeping a bit of order around here. I figured that if searching the grounds for signs of a night hag wasn't turning up anything, maybe getting to see and interact with a bunch of people – especially people who maybe aren't so interested in sticking to the program – might yield more fruit. It's a long shot, I know, but since you've gotta have a job anyway it might as well be this one. I hope enforcing rules doesn't chafe against your nature too much!”

Dean went to midday prayers that day. People were streaming into the church by the time he and Bobby parted ways, and he figured that going with the flow was easier than trying to sneak away. Besides, after stressing over musty tomes all morning, he could use the relaxation that came from sitting down and hearing the calming music.

With the new week, there were songs Dean hadn't heard before. The first song was in Italian, with a bright melody. “Tu sei sorgente viva, tu sei fuoco, sei carità. Vieni Spirito Santo, vieni Spirito Santo.”

Then came one of the new songs, from the orange sheet of paper. “Señor, que florezca tu justicia, y tu paz empape la tierra. O Dios, que florezca tu justicia, y se llene nuestra vida de ti.”

Dean couldn't honestly say that he meant all the words, but he had to admit, the ritual was kinda nice.

Lunch was penne marinara, with the usual bread and butter, cheese, and fruit accompaniments. Just like the pasta during his field week, this dish was awfully light on the sauce. And when Dean saw some of the other boys putting ketchup on theirs, he remembered Charlie telling him about that little auxiliaire trick. He gave it a try just for the hell of it, and honestly, it wasn't terrible.

“I kind of hate that new song,” said Victor, once the classical music had been turned off.

“Which song is that?” asked Adam.

“'Señor, que florezca tu justicia,'” replied Victor. “It's just one word that ruins it for me – 'empape.' It's a terrible choice of words, and it doesn't mean what the translations say it means. 'Empape' doesn't mean 'water,' like you'd water a garden. It means 'soak,' or 'make soggy!'”

“Well, it is one of the provisional songs,” said Adam. “Maybe they'll fix it before it gets added to the songbook.”

“I sure hope so,” said Victor. “I sure hope so.”

On Dean's other side, one of this week's newcomers – a short, chubby guy with brown skin and black hair – was talking to Domingo. “This is my third time as an auxiliaire,” he said. “When I heard about the special anniversary week, I immediately made plans to be here for it!”

“I didn't know about it until I was already here,” admitted Domingo. “Just good luck on my part, I guess.”

“I heard that the Pope is going to be here,” said the new guy.

Dino slammed his hands on the table and leaned forward in his seat. “The Pope comes here? You are serious?”

The new guy nodded at Dino, with a sincere look on his face. Then he immediately turned back to Domingo, and shook his head, with an impish grin. Then back to Dino to nod, and then back to Domingo again to shake his head.

“Stop, you are confusing me!” said Dino.

But the new guy only broke into a big smile and laughed. “It's true,” he said between peals of laughter. “I swear it!”

“I am so confused, I do not know what to believe,” said Dino, with his head in his hands.

Dean couldn't help but join in the new guy's laughter with a chuckle of his own. This dude seemed all right.

Over dessert, Brother Nathanaël once again had everyone introduce themselves for the benefit of the new guys in the house. The one who'd taken to messing with Dino's head was Putu, from Indonesia. The other newcomers were Fintan from Ireland and Kevin from China. Dean was grateful that at least there were fewer new names to remember this time.

After lunch, Dean made his way up to meet with Pasquale and the others for their first Field Hospitality shift. Hester was already there, so he went and stood near her.

“Your name, it is Dean, correct?” asked Hester.

“Yup, that's me,” said Dean. “And you're Hester.”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I am from Latvia. What about you?”

“America,” said Dean. And then, realizing that he wasn't sure which name was most familiar to folks from elsewhere, he added, “The United States. Good ol' USA.”

“You are the American!” Hester responded, her eyes widening and a grin appearing on her face.

Dean blinked. “Uh-oh, do I have a reputation?”

“Oh, it is just that there are not so many Americans at St. Chuck's. So when one comes, it is exciting.”

“Well there are at least two of us here right now,” Dean said, thinking of Alfie. “Ever get any Canadians?”

Pasquale showed up before she could answer. “Hello, are we still waiting for anyone?” he said, while silently counting everyone. “No, everyone is on time. Excellent! Okay, let us divide the map. Ruby and Ezekiel, you can take the left side of the map. Hester and Dean, you can take the right side. halfway through the week, we will switch sides so you don't have always to do the same area.”

Dean and Hester started walking back down toward the bell tower, passing the big meeting tents and Hoeseog along the way. As they neared the covered patio, they passed a large group of teens and young adults walking with purpose, carrying buckets and mops and toilet brushes, singing as they went.

“What shall we do with the dirty toilets?

“What shall we do with the dirty toilets?

“What shall we do with the dirty toilets, all around in St. Chuck's?

“Hey-ho, let's go clean them!

“Hey-ho, let's go clean them!

“Hey-ho, let's go clean them, all around in St. Chuck's!”

Dean would never think of the song “What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor” quite the same again.

They continued past the bell tower, to the tents past Kuća and Māja. So far, they saw plenty of small discussion groups going over their Bible passage hand-outs (well, some groups – “plenty” of them were playing games with their discussion groups, instead), but no one who was obviously lost or goofing off alone. So they turned around and headed back up, past the church, to the barracks.

“It is so hot out,” said Hester, taking a swig from her water bottle. “Why do you wear boots and long trousers, when it is so hot?”

Dean looked down at his sturdy logger boots and blue jeans. “Well, sweetheart, I don't do shorts.”

When they reached the barracks, they had a few chances to attend to their duties. Here, there were a number of people who appeared to be just hanging out, not part of a discussion group (actually discussing today's Bible passage, or otherwise), nor part of a work group. Dean felt a little bad about having to spoil their relaxation time, but a job was a job. And anyway, they presumably knew what they were getting themselves into when they came here.

“Hello,” Hester said to a pair of girls lounging against the outside wall of their barrack. “Do you have work assignment?”

“Yes,” said one of the girls. “We help to serve breakfast in mornings.”

“Oh, good!” said Hester, with a touch of false cheer. “What about Bible discussion group? Can we help you find yours?”

The girls seemed to figure out what Hester was getting at. “Oh, no, we were just about to leave for it,” said the second one. They dragged themselves up off the ground, slipped their sandals on, and headed off toward the road.

Dean and Hester had more or less the same conversation with a few more people, as they made their way down the paths between the barracks. A couple of them actually seemed sincere, like they really were just about to go anyway. One trio was particularly reluctant to move from their perch on a low stone wall, and trudged off resentfully when they realized that the auxiliaires weren't going to just shrug and walk away.

“I'd bet anything that they're just gonna find somewhere else to loiter,” said Dean.

“Yes, probably,” agreed Hester.

Near the end of one block of barracks, several youths were working on something, but it didn't appear to be at all Bible-related. One guy was strumming a guitar while frowning at some sheet music taped to the back of a folding chair in front of him. Another was writing something in a notebook, while a third kept interrupting and pointing to parts he'd already written, making comments in a language Dean couldn't understand.

“Hey fellas,” Dean greeted them. “Can we help you find your work assignments, or Bible discussion groups?”

“No, we are good,” said a boy who was holding a guitar. “We are working on our presentation for Festival of Nations. We represent Belarus.”

Well, that was a new one. Dean wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. On the one hand, no one had mentioned any “Festival of Nations” thing to him. On the other hand, it certainly sounded like the kind of thing that might happen here. Dean paused awkwardly, trying to decide what to do in this situation.

“Okay, sounds good,” he finally said. “Just checking up on folks.” Maybe that whole “trust” thing would work out better this time than it did for the whole find-the-key debacle.

The guitarist nodded quickly before turning his attention back to his music.

“What's the 'Festival of Nations'?” Dean whispered to Hester.

“I do not know. We will ask Pasquale if is real,” she answered.

After making their way through the barracks, Dean and Hester headed over to the over-thirty area, up near the northern edge of the map. Per Pasquale's instructions, they didn't bug the adults about where they were supposed to be. But the search for clotheslines tied to trees was very fruitful. The search for the owners of the clotheslines, so they could be asked to please move them, was less fruitful.

“This is your clothesline?” Hester asked a woman who was lounging on a lawn chair outside her caravan.

“No, it is theirs,” the woman replied, pointing at the next caravan over. There was no sign of that caravan's inhabitants.

“Well… when they return, can you tell them to please move it from tree to fence? The brothers worry about damaging trees,” said Hester.

“Yes, I will tell them,” said the woman. Dean gave it about a ten percent chance of actually happening.

After their cursory examination of the over-thirty area, Hester and Dean headed back down the way they came, back through where the barracks were. There were a lot more people mulling around now.

“Do you have a work assignment?” Dean asked one teenaged guy.

“Yes,” he said, looking surprised. “I just returned from cleaning the toilets.”

“Ah, great,” said Dean, flashing a quick thumbs-up. “Just making sure.”

“Everyone is coming back from work or from Bible discussion now,” Hester observed after the next two people they questioned gave similar answers. “Let's go sit down somewhere. I'm tired from walking.”

Dean wasn't about to argue. “Where do you wanna go?” he asked.

“Come, I know place,” she replied.

Hester led Dean to a place behind the barracks with just enough space to sit and stretch out before the land dropped off steeply. It was otherwise deserted – the perfect place to sit and relax when you were supposed to still be working.

Hester took another swig from her water bottle, then opened up her shoulder bag and pulled out a pouch of tobacco, a pack of rolling papers, and a tube of filters. After rolling herself a cigarette, she offered the items to Dean.

“Thanks,” said Dean, accepting the proffered items. He initially fumbled the filter, but recovered and managed to deftly roll the cigarette on his second try.

“So you have rolled cigarettes before. I was not sure if Americans knew how to do,” said Hester.

Dean hesitated for a moment, before responding, “Yes… cigarettes. I have rolled cigarettes before.”

Hester huffed a laugh as she took out a lighter. “So, tell me something about America,” she said, before lighting her cigarette and passing the lighter to Dean.

“Well, uh, it's big,” said Dean. “Really big. Like okay, how long would it take to drive all the way across Latvia?”

Hester shrugged. “Seven hours? Maybe eight?”

“Right, so if you start in Texas and drive seven or eight hours, you're still only halfway across Texas. To cross the entire country, it takes four or five days. And that's if you're driving ten to twelve hours every day.” Dean would know. He'd done it, more than once.

He paused to think. “I dunno, I mean, American stuff is just normal to me, you know? I don't know what's considered noteworthy here.”

“Is it true,” asked Hester, “that schoolchildren are forced to take loyalty oath every day? My friend tells me this, but I do not believe her.”

“What? Loyalty oath? Yeah, she's definitely pulling your leg. There's no such thing as a–” Dean stopped short. “Oh, unless she means the Pledge of Allegiance? Yeah, that's a thing. But that's not a 'loyalty oath,' it's just…” he blinked a few times. “It's just… I mean…”

“So it is or is not loyalty oath? 'Pledge of Allegiance' sounds like loyalty oath!”

Dean sighed. “Okay, I guess it sort of is. But it's not as weird as it sounds, I swear!”

Hester looked incredulous. “It sounds very weird.”

“Maybe it is, if you're not used to it, I guess,” Dean conceded. “But it's not like it means anything. It's just something you do. I dunno. What else have you heard about America?”

Hester thought for a moment. “I have heard that in restaurant, they do not tell you real price. You get check that says one amount of money, then you must add more money.”

“Well it sounds weird when you put it like that, yeah. And technically, tipping is optional. But you're a dick if you don't. Like, a complete, total dick. That's basically all the waiter or waitress gets paid, so if you don't tip, they get royally screwed over.”

“Why they do not pay waiter normal wages?” asked Hester, her eyes wide.

“Because…” Dean shook his head and sighed. “Because Americans are weird, okay? Because, now that you point it out, we really are kind of weird.”

On his way back to Maison d'Ange, Dean thought more about what things were different here. The problem was, this was his first time out of the country. So he didn't know what was a European thing, what was a French thing, and what was just a St. Chuck's thing. No clothes dryers? The lack of air conditioning? Lunch as the biggest meal of the day? So much friggin' tea? No peanut butter? Huh, he hadn't thought about that last one before now, but yeah he hadn't seen any peanut butter anywhere around St. Chuck's. Was it an allergy thing, or was peanut butter just (say it isn't so!) not that popular in these parts?

“Hey Adam,” Dean said, targeting the first person he saw when he walked in the door. “Do you guys have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in Sweden?”

“Jelly sandwiches?” Adam looked confused. “Oh, you mean jam, don't you. Yes, we have peanut butter sandwiches and jam sandwiches. Peanut butter isn't super popular, but I have a vegan friend who loves it.”

“No, not as separate sandwiches. Peanut butter and jel– jam, together, in the same sandwich.”

Now, Adam looked revolted. “That sounds disgusting!”

Clearly, Adam just had strange taste. Dean turned to Fintan. “They must have peanut butter and jam sandwiches in Ireland, right?”

Fintan gave Dean a bewildered look and shook his head.

“I think I had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as a kid,” said Kevin. “But I was young when my family moved back to Hong Kong, so I don't really remember.”

There were footsteps on the stairs, and then Alfie entered the common room. “Did I hear you having the 'peanut butter and jelly' conversation?”

“You know about this?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, I didn't believe it at first, either. But apparently, PB&Js are a distinctly American phenomenon.”

“No way, what do kids even eat in the rest of the world? There were a good few years when all my little brother would eat were PB&Js, mac and cheese, and chicken nuggets!”

“Kids in Europe allegedly have more refined tastes than American kids,” said Alfie. “I'm sure my sister back home would love to know how they manage that! Her kid recently entered a phase where anything that's not animal crackers is poison.”

Dean chuckled. Now that those days were long, long over, he was able to look back at them fondly.

Looking around the common room, Dean noticed a second guitar in the corner next to Victor's. “Hey, whose is that?” he asked, pointing.

“Must be Kevin's,” said Fintan. “He had one when we were moving in.”

“I always wanted to learn how to play one of those,” Dean said.

“So do it,” said Adam. “Maybe Victor can teach you a few chords.”

“Eh, I can't really,” said Dean. “A guitar would take up too much space in my car.”

“So keep it at home?” replied Adam, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which it was, of course. To a normal person, with a normal life. Which definitely wasn't Dean.

“Then I'd never see it,” said Dean, realizing that he was now committed to this conversation. Crap. “I'm on the road too much. For work.”

“As a mechanic?” asked Alfie.

Shit, he had to figure out a way to make this work. “Uh, yeah,” he said, “I specialize in classic cars, and my garage runs a concierge service where filthy rich folks can schedule for me to come to them.” Alfie looked surprised, but not incredulous. Good. “It started out as a local service, but we started to get calls from further and further away. So I'm on the road going to or from a job pretty often. You'd be surprised how much these bajillionaires are willing to pay in traveling expenses just so someone will tune up their entire fleet of beauties all at once, instead of having to drive them each to a garage, one by one.”

“How do you bring an entire garage to them?” asked Fintan.

“That's why I have no room for a guitar!” said Dean. “The trunk is jam packed with my tools of the trade.” That, at least, was technically true. Dean tried to stick to the golden rule of lying as much as possible: stay as close to the truth as you can, and there's less for you to remember or get wrong later. “Big repairs require a real garage,” he added, “but for minor things and routine maintenance, I can generally handle it on the go.” There. This was a damn good save, if Dean did say so himself.

Luckily, Dean was saved from any further questions by the arrival of Juraj and Eliasz. “…so the priest says, 'What do I look like, a jar of marmalade?'”

Eliasz laughed, and Dean wondered how the hell that joke had started. But from there, the conversation drifted away from Dean's made-up job and devolved into telling jokes.

“Okay, a man is telephoning the hospital,” started Adam, “and he says 'Help, help, my wife is having a baby!'

“And the nurse on the line asks 'Is this her first child?'

“The man replies, 'No you fool, this is her husband!'”

The others chuckled.

“How about this one,” said Fintan. “A man walks into a store and says, 'Fifteen liters of whiskey, please.'

“The guy behind the counter asks, 'Do you have a container for it all?'

“And the man just pats his belly and says, 'You're looking at it!'”

Dean tried to think of a joke he could share, but it was tough. He'd never realized how many jokes relied on puns or idioms that might not make sense to folks who weren't native English speakers. And the rest of the jokes he knew, well, they were definitely too dirty for this crowd.

“So there's a park with two statues in it, a nude man and a nude woman,” said Alfie. “One day, an angel comes down and says, 'You have been granted thirty minutes of life, to use however you wish.'

“So of course, the statues run off into the bushes and there's rustling and giggling that the angel politely pretends not to hear. Then they come back out from behind the bushes, with big smiles.

“And the angel says, 'You still have fifteen minutes, why not do it again?'

“So the woman says 'Oh yes! But let's change positions. This time, I'll hold the pigeon down and you shit on its head!'”

That one drew the most laughs so far. Dean nearly choked on air. He finally decided what the hell, he'd give it a go.

Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh, there's an old man, and he's sitting at a bar, crying into his beer. And this young guy comes up to him and says, 'Why are you crying?'

“So the old man says, 'For thirty years, I was a miner. I mined the gold that made this town rich. But do they call me Giuseppe the gold miner? No! And then, for thirty years, I was a builder. I built every school in this town. But do they call me Giuseppe the school builder? No! But you fuck one goat…'”

Eliasz actually spat tea out onto the floor.

“You are the winner, this round,” said Juraj.

This time, when the bells started to ring, it was Dean's call to go back to work. Time to go shush the kiddies who were ditching evening prayers. He headed up to the church, and was soon joined by Hester and Pasquale.

“So, you remember what you are doing now?” asked Pasquale.

They both nodded. It seemed like a simple enough assignment. They waited around while people poured into the church. It was very noisy at first, but once the sound of music started emanating from the church, the area outside became surprisingly quiet.

Before too long, though, a gaggle of teenagers came walking down the street, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Dean and Hester sprung into action.

“Hi!” said Dean in a stage whisper. “Prayers are going on right now, so could you please keep your volume down? Thanks.”

The teens were surprisingly cooperative, and were mostly quiet until they'd passed and gotten a good distance away from the church. Hearing some sounds from the tents, though, Dean and Hester headed off to intervene.

The two of them patrolled among the tents, telling people to pipe down as necessary, until they were far enough back that they figured any noise here wouldn't make it all the way to the church. By and large, folks were cooperative, though occasionally they needed to follow-up the initial request with a “Sorry, but we really do have to ask you to be quieter. People are trying to pray.”

“Why do people come here if they don't want to go pray?” Dean asked in a low voice. It just seemed odd to him. True, he only went to prayers once every day or two, but he wasn't exactly a normal visitor. These kids didn't have to come here in the first place, so why bother at all unless they were into this kind of thing?

Hester shrugged. “Some just want to hook up,” she said. “Why they do not do this at home, I do not know.”

The two of them lingered around the church a bit, listening for disruptions, then made their way toward the block of barracks closest to the church. Either those kids were surprisingly quiet (or all at prayers), or the building walls did a better job of muffling their sounds than did tent flaps.

After Hester's little revelation, Dean couldn't help but wonder exactly what sort of 'activities' might be going on behind closed doors. He had to admit, if he was here under normal circumstances and knew that his roommates would be away for the next forty-five minutes or so, he'd probably jump on the opportunity, too. Dean shook the thought from his head. That wasn't gonna happen for him. Best not to dwell on the thought.

Before too long, the prayer service drew to a close and people started exiting the church. Dean and Hester did their best to direct the early leavers to take their conversations to Kohvik, but soon there were so many people loitering outside the church that their efforts became futile.

“See you tomorrow,” Hester said.

“G'night,” Dean replied, then headed back down the hill. Kohvik was already packed as he walked by, despite the fact that the food and drink windows wouldn't even open for another fifteen minutes.

“Maison d'Ange,” Dean said to the Night Hospitality crew, pointing in the general direction of the house. They let him pass.

Dean heard running footsteps coming up behind him, which slowed as they reached him.

“Oh, hey Cas,” Dean said when he saw the person making the footsteps. “Uh, Castiel,” he corrected himself, realizing that he'd never heard anyone else call him “Cas.”

“Huh? Oh, no is okay, you can say 'Cas,'” he replied. “'Cas,'” he said again, feeling how the nickname felt on his tongue.

“What do people call you at home?” Dean asked.

“Mostly just 'Castiel,'” Cas replied. “Or, family and friends, they call me 'Kostya.'”

Dean heard a soft chuckle. “What's so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Cas. “Is just, sometimes also my older sister calls me 'Kozlik.' It means 'little goat.'”

Dean chuckled, too. “That's cute.” Glancing over, he saw Castiel grinning.

Dean and Cas were the first to arrive back at Maison d'Ange, but they were quickly joined by others. Dean had a seat at the common room table, and snagged a chocolate chip cookie from the basket.

“Ah, my boy!” exclaimed Balthazar, squeezing Dean's shoulders and ruffling his hair.

“Uh, pardon?” said Dean, thoroughly confused.

“You know what I'm talking about, you dog!” replied Balthazar, flashing Dean a big smile. “You and that pretty blonde chick!”

“Saying some 'Polish prayers' of your own?” added Ash.

Oh right, “Polish prayers.” Balthazar's excuse for spending so much time with his girlfriend of the week.

“Hester?” Dean said. “No, not a chance man. She's just my Field Hospitality partner.”

“Sure, sure,” said Balthazar. “I saw you going behind the barracks, I know what you were up to!”

Dean noticed Cas watching him, with something resembling concern in his eyes. “Well then you know we were just talking. And smoking,” he replied. Other guys were arriving, and he really did not want this to become a rumor.

Balthazar was not ready to give up, though. “That's how it begins!”

“Cool it, Balthazar,” said Ash. “Not everyone is like you.”

“Thank you.” Dean was glad to have somebody on his side. “Besides, I get kind of a tight-ass vibe off of her.”

“But isn't a tight ass a good thi–” Balthazar was cut off by Ash's elbow colliding with his stomach.

“Oh, sorry, I didn't realize how close you were standing,” said Ash. He turned to Dean and added, “I apologize for my fellow countryman.”

Balthazar coughed a couple of times, then went to get himself a bowl of water.

“Apology accepted,” said Dean. He shook his head. So much for everyone here being good, chaste little Christian girls and boys!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * [“What shall we do with the dirty toilets?” song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3U2M0uwoFg)
>   * “Señor, que florezca tu justicia” did not, as far as I know, get fixed before it was added to the songbook. Sorry, “Victor”! X-D
>   * No, I have absolutely no clue how the “jar of marmalade” joke began. It just sounded like a nice and ridiculous punchline :-P
>   * “Kostya” is usually a diminutive for “Konstantin,” but since “Castiel” isn't a proper Russian name, my Russian-speaking beta figured it was as close as we could get. He also suggested the “Kozlik” nickname, which you haven't heard the last of ;-)
> 



	19. Week Three, Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * More on queer theology and gay Christians:
>     * [UnClobber YouTube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLzDqSZGVEQ-S3FLub0LaaAv2vXvXP2w7S)
>     * [Romans 1:26-27: A Clobber Passage That Should Lose Its Wallop](https://www.patheos.com/blogs/unfundamentalistchristians/2013/10/romans-126-27-a-clobber-passage-that-should-lose-its-wallop/)
>     * [Clobbering "Biblical" Gay Bashing](https://www.believeoutloud.com/latest/clobbering-biblical-gay-bashing)
>     * [Two odd little words: the LGBT issue](https://baptistnews.com/article/two-odd-little-words-the-lgbt-issue-part-11-revised/#.W6EwMUVKiRt)
>   * Photos:
>     * [Victor's John Lennon shirt](http://www.cool-t-shirts.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/Capture3.png)
> 


“What's that stuff?” Dino asked Putu, pointing at the metal tube Putu was currently squeezing over his fish and rice.

“Sambal,” replied Putu, now using his knife to spread around the red paste that had come out of the tube. “I brought it from home. It's good, do you want to try?”

Dino accepted the tube Putu was offering him, and squeezed a glob of the stuff onto his own lunch.

“Be careful!” cautioned Putu, just a moment too late. “It's spicy! Lots of chilis!”

Heedless of Putu's warning, Dino proceeded to take a large bite of sambal-smeared fish. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Piccante! Piccante!” He fanned his mouth with his hand, ineffectively trying to cool the burn. He swallowed with what looked like great effort, then immediately chugged all the water in his bowl and grabbed the pitcher to pour himself more.

“Eat your rice,” said Putu, between peals of laughter. “Water just spreads the spicy around! You need rice!”

Dino chugged his second bowl of water before desperately shoveling rice into his mouth. Victor and Toshi looked on, clearly sharing Putu's amusement.

“You want to try?” Putu asked them, in all earnestness. Victor shrugged and took the sambal tube, being careful to squeeze only a tiny amount onto his own fish. He chewed for a moment, then nodded, an approving look on his face. He passed the sambal to Toshi, who did likewise.

Dino sat gasping. “You laugh at my pain!” he chided, earning another burst of laughter from the other three. But by the time dessert was passed around, Dino had recovered enough to be laughing along with them.

Dean grabbed a pot of yogurt as the dessert baskets were passed around. He was never a big yogurt fan back home, but this stuff was just different enough that it was actually pretty good. It was unflavored, but sweetened – something he'd never seen in America. And the texture was just a bit more solid, less gloppy.

“Do you think we could do communion with cookies?” Balthazar wondered aloud, holding his cookie above his water bowl in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a priest holding the eucharist.

“I don't know,” replied Juraj. “Maybe you ask the Pope when he comes,” he added, playfully nudging Putu with his elbow.

A silence grew around the table, and Dean noticed that Brother Gerhard had a hand up. When he had everyone's attention, he formally ended the meal with the usual prayer.

“Loué soit le Seigneur Christ.”

“Qu'il soit loué toujours.”

Work was much the same as yesterday. They met a group of young adults from Tanzania who also claimed to be working on a presentation for the “Festival of Nations.” They'd forgotten to ask Pasquale about this so-called event, but took the Tanzanians as proof that it was a real thing.

“If one group only says it, maybe it is lie,” said Hester, once they were out of earshot. “But if two groups say it? Is probably truth.”

“We have Bible discussion group in the morning,” said the spokesman for a group of five teens hanging out near the barracks. “And work is washing-up after supper.”

“Okay,” replied Hester. “Enjoy your day. Stay out of trouble.” As usual, they had no sure way to check if they were being told the truth, but it wasn't like the kids were running amok so either way there wasn't really a problem.

As they headed back from the over-thirty area (which still had quite a few clotheslines tied to trees), something caught Hester's eye and she made a beeline for one of the barracks. The door to the room was open, and a large group of boys and girls were sitting on the bunk beds, talking and laughing.

“Hello, we're with Field Hospitality,” started Hester. “Whose barrack is this?” One of the boys raised his hand. “Okay, then I need girls to leave,” she continued. “There is no boys and girls together in bedrooms.”

Dean was taken aback. That definitely wasn't one of the rules they'd been given. But Hester wasn't Zachariah. She didn't deserve to be called out in public. So Dean decided to let her make their job more difficult this once, and talk to her about it later.

The teens hesitated. “Do you want me to get brother?” Hester threatened. One of the girls got up and came outside, and the rest quickly followed. Satisfied with her work, Hester turned to walk away and Dean followed. “So, uh, I don't remember Pasquale saying to do that,” he said.

Hester shrugged. “Is inappropriate,” was all she said.

Ah, thought Dean, there's the good, chaste little Christian girl. He'd been right to peg her as a tight-ass. Damn filthy-minded prudes, seeing sex everywhere. Seriously, what did she think was going to happen? Did she think those kids were about to break out into an orgy? With the door wide open?

People were coming back from their jobs and Bible discussion groups now, so Dean and Hester went back to their spot behind the barracks. Hester pulled out her smoking paraphernalia again, and again offered it to Dean when she was done.

“You sure?” he asked. “Just seems unfair to you, since I don't have anything to share in return.”

“Is fine,” she said. “I have more than I need.”

Dean shrugged and rolled himself a cigarette, handling the filter with more dexterity this time. “So, uh,” he said. “Tell me something about Latvia.” He could honestly say he'd never thought about Latvia even once before yesterday, but she'd shown interest in his country so it seemed only fair to return the sentiment.

“Well, our most popular sport is ice hockey,” she replied, handing her lighter to Dean. “Each Baltic state has its own favorite sport. Other than football, of course. We have ice hockey, Estonia has volleyball, and Lithuania has basketball. I wanted to go to America to see our ice hockey team in 2002 Olympics, but tickets were too much money.”

Dean lit his cigarette and passed the lighter back to Hester. Her fingers brushed over his as she took it. Dean wondered what sports were popular in Russia. Could be ice hockey, he figured. It's certainly cold enough. He'd have to ask Cas later. Dean tried to imagine Cas buried inside a hockey goalie's mountain of padding, and quirked a smile.

“What sport is your favorite?” Hester asked.

“Wrestling,” Dean replied without missing a beat.

“Real wrestling? Or fake wrestling?” she teased.

“Hey, pro wrestling is not fake!” said Dean. “Pro wrestling is scripted. Not fake, scripted. It's a friggin' art!”

“It is art?” asked Hester, incredulously.

Dean took a breath. “Okay. So, the skill and the athleticism that go into making staged blows look real? Those aren't fake.”

Hester just looked at him, eyebrows raised.

Dean shifted in place as he tried to think of a better explanation. “Try this – it's like stage magic.” He thought back to Sammy's magic phase, with all his excited, rambling explanations about why magic was the coolest thing ever. “When a magician makes a dove appear out of friggin' nowhere, that's impressive, right? You know it's 'fake,' but that doesn't make it any less awesome to watch. If anything, it adds to it cause you get to wonder 'how did they do that?' Well, that's what it's like to see a pro wrestler piledrive someone. It should snap their friggin' neck, but it doesn't! The skill, and practice, and trust, and strength that goes into that? Damn impressive!”

He hadn't meant to get on a soapbox, but pro wrestling was awesome and it really rubbed him the wrong way when people derided it as “fake.”

Dean thought back to when he first learned that pro wrestling was scripted. At first he'd been upset and tried to deny it, but in the next match John had taken him and Sammy to see, Gunner Lawless hit The Hangman with a powerbomb. John was pissed about that happening to his fave, of course, and jeered loudly. But all Dean could think about was how much he wished it was him being lifted up onto Gunner Lawless's shoulders and slammed down. Preferably followed by a pin. Or better yet, several near-pins and then a pin, to make the struggle last longer. Hell, late at night, that was still one of his top go-to fantasies.

“If you say so,” said Hester, bringing Dean back to reality. “Do you ever do sport?” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger.

“Yeah, I did amateur – 'real' – wrestling back in high school, for a little while,” Dean replied, putting large finger-quotes around the word “real.” Hmm, Cas in a wrestling singlet… Yeah, that was a way better mental image than Cas all covered up in padding. He wasn't exactly scrawny, either. Those arms? Those shoulders? That boy looked like he could hold his own in a wrestling match.

Dean glanced over at Hester and flashed a tight smile. If only little miss “inappropriate” could see the thoughts going through his mind right now. Damn, what was it about Cas that made him feel like a teenager all over again? With dirty thoughts entering his mind out of nowhere? If he wasn't careful, he was going to develop a, er, “problem.” Think unsexy thoughts, he said to himself.

“Oh look,” said Hester, in a high voice. “A little cat!”

Well, not exactly what he had in mind. Definitely less gross than what he was about to go with. But it might do the trick.

“Nāc šeit, maz kaķis!” she said. The cat eyed them suspiciously from behind a patch of tall grass. “Look Dean, it looks like he wears zucchetto on his head!”

“Wears a wha?” Dean saw what she was talking about – a large black splotch which covered the top of its head, like a hat – but wasn't familiar with the word she'd used.

“You know, zucchetto. Hat priests wear. Just small thing, little dome.”

Dean visualized pictures he'd seen of the Pope, with his white skullcap. “Oh, like a yarmulke,” he said.

Now it was Hester's turn to be confused. “What is 'yarmulke'?”

“The skullcap some Jewish people wear,” explained Dean.

Hester nodded her understanding. “Maybe, when important clergy are here for special anniversary week, priests and rabbis can bond over love for little hats!” She giggled. The cat was startled by the sound and bounded away.

“Don't forget the imams,” Dean added. “They wear, oh what's it called again?” He snapped his fingers as he tried to think. “Taqiyah! That's the word!” He was relieved when Hester didn't ask how he knew that word. It would have been difficult to bullshit something on the spot. In reality, he'd learned that, and a handful of additional Islamic terms, while researching a case a couple years back. He'd been dead certain he was hunting an ifrit. In the end, though, it turned out to be an ordinary salamander.

“The lizard?” his dad had asked him over the phone, incredulously.

“No of course not the lizard!” he'd replied. “The fire spirit!”

But on the plus side, at least he had a head start on the research if he ever did run into an ifrit.

Dean sauntered as he made his way back from work. Chilling behind the barracks with Hester was okay, but it was nice to have a real break to look forward to. Plus, he was more than ready for a snack.

Once in the common room, Dean checked the mini refrigerator for anything good. Yahtzee – chocolate pudding cups. Then he took the bag of powdered iced tea from the drawer, and mixed himself up a bowl. He'd seen Alfie out in the courtyard, so he took his snack outside to say hi.

“What's that you're working on?” Dean asked, climbing up onto the stone wall next to Alfie.

Alfie put down his pocket knife and tilted his prayer bench so Dean could see the seat. On the right side, a stylized cross was carved into the wood, and on the left, meticulous lettering was sketched onto it in pencil. The grid he had drawn first to help him space the letters evenly was still visible.

“I don't actually know that much about wood carving,” Alfie confessed. “I'm kinda making it up as I go. And I'll probably have to rub more pencil into the carved parts to make them really stand out, which I'm pretty sure the professionals don't do.”

Dean swallowed a spoonful of pudding. “What's it say?” He could tell it was Latin, but wasn't familiar with all of the words.

“'Magnificat Anima Mea Dominum,'” Alfie read. “'My soul magnifies the Lord.' It's my favorite St. Chuck's prayer. One of my favorite Bible passages, too. 'He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.' It's pretty subversive, if you really think about it.”

“Right,” said Dean, not sure he could bullshit this one but trying anyway. “That Jesus, always preaching about…” He trailed off when he saw the bemused look on Alfie's face.

“You're definitely not a big Mary fan, then,” Alfie said. “If you were, you'd know that the Magnificat is her thing. He wasn't even born yet.”

Dean stared down at his pudding. “Ok, you caught me. Yeah, not a Mary expert. She's the dame in the Christmas story, right?”

Alfie laughed. “Yeah, among other things. So you're Protestant, I take it.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Dean. According to Bobby, getting baptized as a baby technically made him part of the club. And Pastor Jim was called “Pastor” instead of “Father,” so sure, he was probably Protestant. Still, it was safer to direct the conversation back to Alfie. “You're Catholic, then?”

“No actually,” said Alfie. “Both my parents were raised Catholic, but they left. I was baptized Episcopalian, raised Methodist, and eventually confirmed Episcopalian.”

“Sounds like a real wacky journey,” Dean said.

“You don't know the half of it.”

Dean took a sip of his iced tea. “So, uh, I was wondering,” he said. He wasn't sure this was the best idea, but the question had been nagging at his mind all week. “How is it that you can be gay _and_ Christian? Don't get me wrong, I don't have a problem with it!” he rushed to add. “I'm just curious, cause, you know. So many religious folks do.”

Boy did they, Dean added silently. He'd never forget that one hookup who, after spending half the night balls-deep in Dean's ass, left a tract about the evils of homosexuality on the motel nightstand.

Alfie put the half-carved bench down on his lap. “Well for me, there's really one Bible verse that settles it. Matthew 7:16, from the Sermon on the Mount. 'You will know them by their fruits.' A good tree bears good fruit, a bad tree bears bad fruit.”

Dean hesitated, then nodded slowly. That rang a vague bell? Maybe?

“Well, what are the fruits of homophobia? Self-loathing, broken families, kids thrown out onto the street, violence, suicide, murder… And the fruits of accepting queer people as we are? Loving relationships, healthy self-esteem, intact families… So yeah, by Jesus’s own words, it’s pretty clear which one is right!”

“I guess,” said Dean. “But aren't there other verses that, uh, aren't so friendly?”

Alfie nodded. “Yeah, the 'clobber passages.'” he sighed. “Thing is, you can't just take a verse out of context and say, 'this is what the Bible says.' You've got –” he clenched his fist “– to consider the larger context. And a major theme that runs through the entire Bible is liberation for the oppressed. So using the Bible to oppress, instead of to liberate, is automatically an abuse of the text.”

Dean saw some motion out of the corner of his eye, and heard some rustling. He looked down into the garden and saw Cas crouched there, pulling up weeds. He stiffened a little – he wouldn't have brought this subject up if he'd known they'd have an audience. Well, fingers crossed that Cas was too far away to actually hear anything.

“Plus,” Alfie continued, “nearly all of us read translations, not the original texts. So words like 'homosexuality,' which was coined in the late 19th century? Never appears in the Bible. Not once. Our present-day concept of 'sexual orientation' didn't even exist back then. So how could the writers condemn something they had no concept of? It's like asking if they condemned, I dunno, the internet!”

“So what exactly were they condemning, then?” asked Dean.

“Well if you look at their cultural context,” Alfie answered, “they're responding to stuff like pagan sex rituals, wild orgies, sex slaves, men having sex with boys… There isn't a single reference, negative or positive, to loving, respectful, consensual same-sex relationships between equals.

“Hell, back in first century Rome, they didn't even think of straight relationships in those terms. You know what Paul thought of straight sex?”

“Uh, only in marriage?” Dean guessed.

“Well yeah, but also, he wished everyone was celibate like him. Marriage was a second-best option for the weak.”

“That's just… not natural!” Dean protested

“Not according to Paul,” said Alfie. “And it's pretty ironic, cause people say being gay is 'unnatural,' but you know what was considered completely natural and unremarkable in Paul's day?”

Dean shook his head.

“A man sleeping with his slaves. Male or female, with or without their assent. He was higher on the social ladder, slaves were lower, so he could fuck 'em. That's why they could molest boys, too. But two freeborn men? That was 'unnatural' because they were the same rank, and disgraceful because it treated one of them like a slave. Or, you know, a woman. Cause they weren't big on gender equality back then, either.”

“So if we don't think marriage is for chumps anymore, or women are inferior to men, or slavery should even be a thing, then it doesn't make sense to pretend the man-on-man stuff is still relevant, either,” said Dean.

“Exactly!” said Alfie.

“Sounds like you've put a lot of research into this,” Dean said.

Alfie shrugged. “I guess. Some, I learned in seminary. And the clobber passages are a big hurdle for a lot of folks, so it's good to have a grasp on them. For me personally though, they've never been that big a deal. Cause Jesus made me about a thousand times more gay. How could that happen, if he had a problem with it?”

“Wait, what? You're gonna have to run that by me one more time,” said Dean.

Alfie chuckled. “Before, I was pretty gay. I was out, I was proud, all that. But then Jesus happened. He made me understand other marginalized people's humanity better, which helped me understand my own better, too. I had no clue how much internalized homophobia I was carrying around until that burden was lifted.”

Dean was a little confused. “Didn't you say you grew up Christian, though?”

“Yeah, but honestly, I thought it was full of shit,” said Alfie. “I left the church for fifteen years before learning how Christianity could actually make sense. But that's a whole 'nother conversation. Point is, loving someone when society says it's wrong, that takes a lot of heart. And I just can't imagine that God would call it a flaw to have too much heart. Hell, I'll go even further. If love is from God – and it is – then homophobia is blasphemy.”

Dean gave a low whistle. Strong words. “Maybe you should give the Pope a crash course on this stuff when he comes,” Dean joked.

Alfie gave him the side-eye. “Yeah, cause that would go over so well, I'm sure!”

Field Hospitality was largely uneventful during evening prayers. Once it let out, and there was no use trying to shush people anymore, Dean and Hester parted ways. Dean saw Victor and Domingo starting the walk back to Maison d'Ange. “Hey, wait up guys,” he called out as he jogged to catch up.

“Oh hey Dean, how's it going?” said Domingo.

“Good, good. Man, how about that scripture reading tonight? Could you believe it?”

Domingo and Victor just blinked at him.

Dean chuckled. “Nah, I'm just messing with you guys. I wasn't even there. I had Field Hospitality.”

Victor smiled and rolled his eyes. “You're a little strange, do you know that?”

Dean flashed a cocky grin. “Better to stand out than fit in, that's what I say!”

Victor punched Dean playfully in the shoulder, and the three of them kept walking.

“Hey, why don't we stop in for a beer?” Dean suggested as they approached Kohvik.

“I don't know if we should,” said Domingo, his brow furrowed. “We're not really supposed to hang out there with the field people.”

“We won't be hanging out,” Dean argued. “Just having a quick drink before heading back.”

“Hell, I'm in,” said Victor. “I haven't had a beer in… how long have I been here, again?”

Domingo shrugged. “I guess I'm in too, then.”

They bought their beers and pushed through the crowds to find somewhere to stand. None of the tables were available, but they found a bit of open space that would do.

“Hospitality jobs are no fun,” said Domingo. “I had Night Hospitality a couple of weeks ago. I was very happy when that week ended.”

“The folks who sit at the end of the road to make sure field people don't wander off the grounds?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, both ends of the road,” said Domingo. “Plus patrolling the grounds for people in places they shouldn't be, plus patrolling around the tents and barracks for anyone who's being too noisy. And if you have it on Sunday night, you also have to look out for late arrivals who've gotten lost. There's even a second supper for the late arrivals, up until a certain hour.”

“Damn, how late do you have to stay out?” Dean asked

Domingo sighed. “Until things quiet down. On a bad night, maybe three or four.”

Dean cringed. He was used to pulling all-nighters, but the opportunity to get a full night's sleep was one of the luxuries he was fully enjoying while he was here. Hopefully, Bobby would never decide it served the case for him to be wandering the grounds late at night.

“At least you don't have to wake up too early,” Domingo continued. “There's a second breakfast, just for Night Hospitality, later in the morning.” Well that sounded reasonable, at least. “The worst part, though, is patrolling by the love gate,” Domingo said.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “The 'love gate'?”

“You do not know the love gate?” said Victor. “Oh, this is your first time as an auxiliaire, yes?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Dean. “Second time at St. Chuck's,” he added, sticking to his invented backstory.

“The love gate is past Caerwys, past the tents, in the far corner,” said Domingo, waving an arm in the general direction. “People – even some auxiliaires – they think they can find some privacy on the other side of the gate. Where they can,” he shrugged, “you know. But we know all about it, of course. The best thing to do is just to make noise when you approach, so they pull their pants up before you even get there. Still, I saw more hairy asses than I ever wanted to.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to will away the mental image.

Dean chuckled. I dunno, he thought, that might depend on exactly whose ass it was. If it were Castiel's? He probably wouldn't mind. Zachariah's? He shuddered.

Victor laughed. “You just thought of who you would and wouldn't want to catch at the love gate, didn't you,” he said with a knowing look. Damn, busted.

Dean took another swig of his beer. As he lowered the cup, he noticed something funny. “Woah, half a glass of beer and I'm already seeing double,” he said. The other two men looked at him questioningly. “Don't tell me you don't see it,” he said. “Domingo, you and Victor's shirt!”

They both looked down at Victor's t-shirt, and a look of realization dawned on their faces. “Wait a sec,” said Domingo. He pulled a pair of sunglasses with round lenses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and crossed his arms over his chest. The picture was complete – he was now the spitting image of the John Lennon picture on Victor's shirt.

“Friggin' classic!” said Dean, with a big grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Extended Scene:
>     * The discussion with Alfie in this chapter has been cut down from its original length (you're welcome, lol). [The uncut version is here](http://brotherfaithsisterdoubt.tumblr.com/post/180692251370).
> 



	20. Week Three, Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Music:
>     * [Bohemian Rhapsody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdyxUJ4DAiA) on accordion
>   * Just a totally random reminder that if the parts that go a little more in depth about theological subjects bore you, then by all means skim past them. I'm super excited to share my Special Interest with the world, but I totally understand that it's not everyone's cup of tea!  
>    
>  This is just a super random comment, which has nothing to do with anything particularly anvilicious in this chapter, honest... *tugs at collar nervously*
>   * This chapter features art by TheDogsled! Click the image to see it at full resolution – the detail is amazing!
> 


On the way up to midday prayers the next day, Dean and a handful of other Maison d'Ange boys passed by various other houses, as usual. Most were part of the St. Chuck's property, but here and there were a few private houses of folks who lived in the surrounding village. Dean noticed a sign on one of the buildings which read “Gites á Louer.” He wasn't sure what exactly those words meant, but based on the smaller text under it, it looked like an apartment rental advertisement.

“Hey, isn't that the same word we say after meals? That whole 'Loué soit le Seigneur Christ' thing?” Dean asked the general group.

“Yes,” Eliasz answered. “'Louer' can mean 'to praise,' or 'to lease' or 'to hire.' It depends on context.”

Dean made a “mind blown” gesture. “Those are two completely different things, though!”

Eliasz shrugged. “English has words like that, too. Why 'bark' is on outside of tree, and also what dog says? Why 'nail' is on your finger, and also holds wood together?”

Dean stopped for a moment as the gears turned in his head, then hurried to catch up again.

“You need good carpenter?” said Juraj. “Hire the Lord Christ!”

“Let him always be hired,” Ash responded.

“…and I expect a postcard from Latvia,” Ruby was saying as Dean approached the Field Hospitality meeting point.

“Of course!” said Hester. “You will have to give me your address – you have my e-mail, yes?”

Ruby nodded. “So have you packed yet?”

Hester laughed. “I do not leave until Sunday, of course I have not packed yet.”

“Ready for work, ladies?” Dean asked as he got closer.

“Oh hi, Dean!” Hester said with a smile. Turning back to Ruby, she added, “I'll see you later!”

Work today was more of the same. “Helping” people find their work or Bible discussion groups. Smoking and making small talk behind the barracks. Dean was happy when it was over, and he could go get a snack.

When Dean got back to the common room, he saw Toshi unloading several boxes and plastic laundry baskets full of supplies.

“What's all this?” Dean asked.

“Wednesday,” said Toshi. “Economat delivery.” Dean vaguely remembered that as the place where Zachariah had gotten extra cookies. Apparently, it was the place that kept the auxiliaire houses stocked in general.

Dean bent down and grabbed a few things from a box. The giant bottle of olive oil went in the left-hand cabinet. The box of chocolate sticks, over in the right-hand cabinet. The butter went right into the refrigerator, and the ground coffee beans went in the drawer next to the sink. He lugged the ten-pack of aseptic milk boxes into the cabinet, while Toshi hefted an even bigger package of toilet paper up onto his shoulder and took it around the corner to the hallway closet.

Kevin came in shortly after Dean and joined in the effort, though he had to ask where a few of the items went since he'd only been in Maison d'Ange for a few days. Between the three of them, they made quick work of the pantry items, towels and bed linens, deodorants and toothpaste tubes, and all the other items necessary to keep a household of (Dean did a quick mental count) seventeen guys functioning.

After the work was done, Kevin went to the corner, picked up his guitar, and started strumming. Toshi took out a pocket knife, selected an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table, and began peeling it. Dean was about to go upstairs and read some of his neglected copy of _Cat's Cradle_ when the bookcase caught his eye. What kinds of books did they have here anyway, he wondered.

The bookcase contained Bibles in various languages (of course), several books Dean recognized from La Boutique, and a good number he didn't. There was also, for some reason, a random Italian book about soccer. Among the books in English, there was a history of the community and a biography of its founder Brother Raoul. There was a book of short meditations for each day of the year, one of prayers Brother Raoul had written, and the Rule of the community, also written by Brother Raoul.

Dean pulled that last one off the shelf and thumbed through it. To his surprise, it wasn't a list of rules for being a monk at all. Most of the book was a collection of spiritual advice and reflections. One reflection which caught his eye said, “God never punishes, never wounds our human dignity. God does not extort our obedience. Any authoritarian gesture would disfigure him. The impression that God comes to punish is one of the greatest obstacles to faith.” Huh, so much for hellfire, thought Dean.

A few pages later, though, was something more difficult to digest. “In any disagreement, what is the use of trying to find out who was wrong and who was right? Forgive and then forgive again. That is the highest expression of loving.” It sounded nice in the abstract, but Dean knew he was very far from practicing that – and he didn't really want to, if he was perfectly honest. Sometimes, it sure as hell did matter who was wrong and who was right!

Dean heard a satisfied hum from Toshi, and glanced over at the table. He'd just finished peeling the apple in one, long, continuous piece. Nice knife work, Dean thought.

There were sections on practical matters like meals and welcoming new brothers toward the end of the thin book, followed by the text of the brothers' lifetime vows, then a brief history of the community. Someone had underlined the passage “If reconciliation between Christians is at the heart of the Community of St. Charles' vocation, this has never been seen as an end in itself, but so that Christians can be a leaven of reconciliation between people, of trust among nations, and of peace on earth.” Yeah, okay, good luck with that, thought Dean. But world peace was an admirable goal, at least.

Dean put the book back and kept scanning the various titles. Now that he wasn't preoccupied with the first book, Dean realized that Kevin was playing “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. Good taste, he thought. And a hell of a lot better than that dreck he'd been playing earlier.

Back on the bookshelf, there was a collection of thin booklets. “I Believe; Help My Unbelief,” about faith and doubt. “Thrice Holy God,” about the doctrine of the trinity. “Blessed in Our Human Frailty,” about the meaning of the Incarnation. That first one sounded a little interesting, but he kept browsing.

Then he saw a book entitled “Seek and You Will Find: Questions on the Christian Faith and the Bible,” with “The Community of St. Charles” listed as the author. That one caught his eye. They talked a good talk here, made everything feel very welcoming. But if this book gave straight answers to straight questions, this would be where the other shoe dropped. Dean had traveled around enough to get the occasional tract shoved into his hand, and he knew what they all said in the end. It was time to dig up some dirt.

They secretly thought that all other religions were wrong, right? He found “What do Jesus' words 'I am the Way' mean?” in the table of contents and flipped to the corresponding page. “How many times has this verse been used by believers to downplay the value or the importance of other spiritual experiences and paths! On the lips of Jesus, however, these words do not attempt to exclude anyone from fellowship with God.” It went on to explain that Jesus's intention is not to restrict access to God, but to facilitate it, and that “all who remain faithful to the divine call in the depths of their heart” are ultimately following the same way.

But the whole point must still be to get to some pie-in-the-sky afterlife. Yet the answer to “What does it mean 'to enter the Kingdom of God'?” spoke, complete with Biblical citations, of a state possible in the here and now. Likewise, “What does the Bible mean by 'the soul'?” spoke of one's desire and joy in living, and of salvation as “living a life beyond all our hopes, in joy and gratefulness,” not something put off until after death.

Wait, so then why did Jesus die? For “Why did Christ have to suffer?” the book talked about giving meaning to the incomprehensibility of the death of an innocent, the credibility of a prophet who stays the course even to the point of death, and the opportunity to put forgiveness into practice. What it did not say was “Because of you, sinner! You and your filthy sins!” In fact, a few questions later, it outright condemned the notion that suffering brings salvation as “blasphemous.”

“What role does repentance play in Christian life?” had some underlined passages. “Communion with God's love, if it is authentic, will of necessity transform the life of the person who accepts it. In the New Testament, this transformation is called metanoia, a word often translated as 'conversion' or 'repentance' but that literally means 'a change of outlook.' It refers to the radical reorientation of priorities that accompanies an encounter with the living God.” The answer went on to discourage “interminable breast-beating.”

Dean's head was swimming. He wondered what Alfie would think of this book. They'd only talked about one topic, but Dean got the feeling that his overall theology was pretty progressive. He'd probably like this book. Dean idly flipped through the pages a little more. As he did, the front cover flopped open and he saw something written inside. “Alfie Samandriel. USA. Maison d'Ange.” Oh for… naturally. Naturally.

The common room was crowded that night after evening prayers. More than half of the house was there, snacking and socializing.

“I'm making St. Chuck's Müesli,” announced Ash. “Who wants some?” Most of the hands went up. Dean had no clue what “St. Chuck's Müesli” was, but he was pretty sure it was some kind of food, so he put his hand up too. Ash surveyed the show of hands, before getting out a big serving bowl. Dean watched as Ash poured rolled oats into the bowl, then grabbed a big handful of chocolate sticks and started breaking them up into bite-sized pieces. Next, he grabbed a couple of peaches from the fruit bowl, and tried to cut them up with a table knife.

“Here, use this,” said Toshi, handing Ash his pocket knife. “It is clean.”

“Thanks,” said Ash, accepting the knife. He cut the fruit into bite-sized chunks, and added them to the bowl with the oats and chocolate. Finally, he got an open box of milk from the refrigerator and poured its contents into the bowl. He stirred it up with a big serving spoon, then started dishing it out into bowls. Vitalik got up, grabbed a handful of spoons, and started distributing them along with the bowls of müesli.

Cas came down the stairs and had a seat on the bench in the open spot next to Dean, right as the bowls were coming around.

“Do you want?” asked Vitalik. Cas looked confused for a moment, but then nodded and accepted the bowl.

Dean took a bite. The oats reminded him a little bit of weird health food cereals, but the chocolate balanced it out. And the peaches were ripe enough that they added some nice juicy sweetness to the mix. All in all, not half bad.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you,” Dean said to Cas, around a mouthful of müesli. “Don't take this the wrong way but, uh, why the accordion?”

Cas carefully chewed and swallowed before answering. “My Grandfather Dmitri, he played. He taught me how to play.”

“Grandpa Dmitri, huh? Dmitri Novakov?” He didn't know why he asked, really. He just found the Russianness of it fun to say.

Cas nodded. “Dmitri Aleksandrovich Novakov. Do not confuse with my father, Dmitri Dmitrievich Novakov.”

“Wait,” said Dean, “I get having the same name as his dad, but what's with the middle name?”

Cas swallowed another bite of Müesli. “Is patronymic. Middle name in Russia, it is from father's name. My father is Dmitri, son of Dmitri, so he is Dmitri Dmitrievich. I am Castiel, son of Dmitri, so I am Castiel Dmitrievich.”

“Castiel Dmitrievich Novakov,” said Dean thoughtfully. “So your kid would be what, Boris Castielovich Novakov?”

Cas laughed, his spoon paused in the air halfway to his mouth. “Why you think I would name my son 'Boris'?” he said, still laughing.

Cas's laughter was infectious. Dean couldn't help but smile as he asked, “Why, what would you choose instead?”

“'Nadezhda' for a girl,” Cas said after a moment's pause. “And for a boy? Maybe 'Nikolai.'” Then his smile faltered. “But… I will not have children, I think.”

“Right, the priest thing,” said Dean. Then, sensing Cas's discomfort, he deliberately brought the subject matter back around. “So, right, your gramps taught you how to play the accordion?”

Cas's demeanor perked back up, grateful for the subject change. “Well, he tried, at first. I did not have so much interest when I was very small. But one day, I was ten years old I think, my teacher brings record to school and plays for us. It is illegal music – this is still Soviet Union, you see? But she brings to school anyway and plays for us amazing song, 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen. I swear that day, I will learn to play this song.”

The way Cas's eyes shone at the mere memory took Dean's breath away. Illegal music? A teacher risking god knows what to bring it to her students? I mean yeah, thought Dean, if there's any song worth that it's “Bohemian Rhapsody.” That thing is a masterpiece. But the whole scenario Cas had described seemed surreal. It was nearly impossible to believe that something like that had happened during Dean's own lifetime.

“So, uh,” Dean started. “So did you? Learn to play 'Bohemian Rhapsody'?”

Another gorgeous smile spread across Castiel's face. “I learned it. Grandfather, he made me play many simple songs and boring exercises first. But then one year, it is my birthday, and he gives me surprise – sheet music for this song, written in his own hand. For months, he listened to record when I was away and wrote down notes for me. I play and play until I know by heart.”

“Well?” said Dean, expectantly.

“What?” replied Cas.

“You can't tell a story like that, and then not play the song for us!”

“I left accordion upstairs,” Cas protested.

“So?” said Dean. When Cas said nothing, he tilted his head and gave him a look. “Bring it out, Dmitrievich!”

Cas hung his head, but Dean could still see the smile on his face. “Okay, okay,” he said, rising off the bench. Dean had a sudden urge to smack him on the ass as he walked by, but contained himself enough to just lightly touch Cas on the back, instead.

Cas was upstairs just long enough for Dean to start to worry that maybe he'd changed his mind, when he heard a pair of feet thumping their way back down again. Cas entering the room with the accordion strapped to his chest was enough of a sight that the other guys took notice and started quieting down in anticipation. Balthazar moved from the seat at the head of the table to make it available for Cas, and the others sitting nearby rearranged and moved chairs just enough to give him space to work.

Cas took his seat, shifted a little to get comfortable, and took off his glasses. Then closed his eyes, paused for a moment, and began to play.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/dd3ba3dfacd14f9ae713859f05868552/tumblr_piu1nsQ6k81wptgbso3_1280.png)

By “I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy,” Fintan started to sing along. One or two more boys joined in with each line, until nearly everyone was singing by “Mama, ooo, didn't mean to make you cry.” Dean was glad he was sitting close enough to Cas to still hear the accordion over all the voices. And the visuals were just as alluring as last time he'd seen Cas play. Watching his hands and his neck – and oh, those powerful thighs the accordion was resting on – put nearly pornographic thoughts into Dean's mind, which he didn't try to suppress quite as hard as he thought he perhaps ought to.

By the time “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me,” came along, Dean had that delicious ache in his chest that only powerful music or desperate longing can evoke. The music swelled into “So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye,” and the look on Cas's face was elation. And as it wound down into the coda, Dean felt like he needed to catch his breath. Damn this boy and his friggin' accordion. Oh yeah, Dean was had it bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Hey Aleks, my wonderful beta – did you notice the little easter egg I put in here for you? Castiel's grandfather's patronymic? <3
>   * The story of hearing an illegal copy of Bohemian Rhapsody is a true story, told to me over a decade ago by a Russian friend who I have sadly lost contact with. (The part about learning to play the accordion as a result is, however, fictional.) It was such a powerful story to hear that I wanted to share it, to share this testimony to the power and importance of music in people's lives.
>   * I received a personal request (sadly I can't remember from whom) to include the line “Bring it out, Dmitri!” somehow. I didn't think I'd be able to, but I reckon “Bring it out, Dmitrievich!” is close enough X-D
>   * BTW, all of the books that Dean sees on the bookshelf are actual books from the real “St. Chuck's,” and all of the quoted and paraphrased content is their real content.
>     * [The Rule of “St. Chuck's”](https://shop.taize.fr/the-sources-of-taize.html)
>     * [Seek and You Will Find](https://shop.taize.fr/seek-and-you-will-find-questions-on-the-christian-faith-and-the-bible.html)
> 



	21. Week Three, Thursday

Breakfast was winding down. The typical morning lull was starting to be replaced by snippets of chatter as people's coffee started to kick in. After the meal-ending prayer and the reading of the chores list, Brother Nathanaël had one more announcement.

“We love that you all have a good time together,” said Nathanaël. “And we hope that this will continue. But we must remind you that there are neighbors living nearby, and they enjoy sleeping at night. So please, after 9pm, try to keep the noise level down.”

Castiel turned pink and bit his lips. Dean, meanwhile, was amused that last night – thoroughly wholesome, by anybody's standards – was what passed for a rowdy party around here. Dammit, he was glad there was no one from home around to see how much he'd enjoyed such a pure, tame evening. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Dean started to get antsy after breakfast clean-up. He hadn't heard from Bobby in what felt like ages, and he hated the feeling of stagnation during a hunt. But at least this time, unlike on most hunts, his inaction didn't cause more deaths.

He wandered around the grounds for much of the morning. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to last night and Castiel. Thinking about Cas definitely did not put butterflies in his stomach. Nuh-uh, no way. He just had the hots for him. Like any other attractive guy. That was it. He people-watched as he wandered, picking attractive men out of the crowds and trying to convince himself that what he felt for Cas was no different than what he felt for these random dudes.

Dean was relieved when the bells for midday prayers started ringing. That would be a decent distraction, at least, from his ruminations. Or it would have been, if Cas hadn't ended up right next to him. He spent the entire period of silence meditating on how amazing Cas's smile had looked last night.

As soon as midday prayers were over, Dean was off like a bolt. He had to set the table for lunch. That was definitely the only reason he was so eager to get out of there.

Dean counted out plates, bowls, napkins, and silverware, and carried them out to the dining area on a tray. Then he went back for the salt, pepper, olive oil, ketchup, and mustard. He saw that Putu had left his squeeze-tube of sambal in the same cabinet as the other condiments (unlike a certain jar of Nutella, he noted), and brought that out too. He went to grab the water pitchers, but Toshi was already at the outside sink, filling them.

During lunch, Dean was sitting just close enough to Fintan and Vitalik to hear bits and pieces of their conversation as they compared and contrasted Irish and Ukrainian folk music. Apparently one of the things they had in common was – what else – accordions. Dean just couldn't escape.

Dean desperately had to use the bathroom by the time lunch ended. He cursed himself for not going before. Once he'd finished his business and washed his hands, he went outside to go meet Hester. On his way out, he noticed Fintan and Vitalik sitting on the stone wall, still chatting with each other. He overheard a couple of phrases before he made it out of the gate, including “Ukrainian Death Metal” and “well of course, nothing beats Led Zeppelin.” At that, Dean desperately wished he could stay and join the conversation, but Field Hospitality duty awaited.

The week was officially half done, so Dean and Hester switched sides of the map with Ruby and Ezekiel. That left them with just the one block of barracks to patrol, and a whole lot of tents, both large and small. There weren't many people lingering around the small blue and orange tents, like the one Dean had slept in his first week. Probably, Dean reasoned, because there simply isn't enough space inside to hang out and socialize. A couple of people were in the process of going to or returning from the showers, but Dean and Hester let them go about their business undisturbed. The large grey tents, on the other hand, were playing host to several groups of teenagers who presumably had other things they were supposed to be doing. Dean and Hester sped them on their way, and continued along.

Once the time rolled around where people were legitimately coming back from their jobs and Bible discussion groups, Hester and Dean found a place to sit behind Caerwys. As had become their routine, they rolled cigarettes and relaxed.

“This is not worst job, really,” mused Hester. “There are much less enjoyable jobs.”

“Yeah,” agreed Dean. “It could definitely be worse. And some of the jobs I've had at home, don't even get me started.”

“Oh?” asked Hester, contrary to Dean's explicit instructions. “What kind of jobs did you do?”

Shit, why did Dean keep walking into these conversations? Well, he occasionally worked a “legit” job in between hunts, when hustling pool wasn't enough. And sometimes, albeit rarely, he had to actually take a shitty job as part of his cover story for investigating a case, instead of just bullshitting his way through it. He could handle this.

“I used to wait tables at a bar,” he threw out there. He saw the confused look on Hester's face, and clarified the meaning of the idiom. “I was a waiter. I took people's orders, and brought out their food and drinks.”

“Why is so bad?” asked Hester.

“Well, when you're in the weeds – um, during busy hours – you have to manage a whole bunch of tables at once. And cause it's a bar, half of them are getting trashed – drunk – and you never know which ones'll get belligerent. It's always a surprise. I once had this sweet little old lady smack me in the face with her purse after a few Mai Tais. You're thinking a weak little swat? Hell no, that lady split my lip! But you have to stay calm and polite and smile the whole time, or you won't get a good tip.”

Hester shook her head. “I still do not understand why you do 'tips.'”

Dean sighed. “And then there's, uh, my current job. Which I love, most of the time. But sometimes it's not the job, it's the dipshits you have to work with. This one time, I was doing a routine oil change, but I was teaching a rookie so I had him pour in the new oil. But he didn't wait for me to say I was ready, so the oil drain plug was still in my hand and I ended up with oil all over my face and in my hair.” That story was only a little bit fudged. It was actually Sammy who'd poured the oil on him, and he'd been young enough that honestly Dean couldn't blame him. He'd just hoped to impress John by teaching Sam while he was away.

Hester thought for a moment. “I work at hotel. Sometimes people leave rooms as disgusting mess. But that is job for housekeeper, not me.”

“I stayed at a hotel recently,” said Dean. “It was a pretty nice hotel. The room was great. The minibar was terrible, though. All the little bottles tasted like shampoo!”

Hester burst out laughing, throwing her head back. She laughed a good bit more than the joke really deserved, in Dean's opinion. Must be extra funny to an actual hotel employee, he figured. Speaking of minibars, Dean wondered what Cas's favorite drink was. Probably vodka, if the stereotype held true. Could be some other spirit, though. Maybe beer. Okay, so he really had no clue. Too bad there wasn't a proper bar around here to go out for a real drink, though. That would be fun, just him and Cas, going for a drink with a buddy. He wondered if Cas knew how to shoot pool. If not, Dean could teach him. He'd be sharking in–

“Look, little cat!” exclaimed Hester. “With little hat on head!” Dean looked up and, sure enough, trotting toward them was what sure looked like the same cat as the other day. How many black and white spotted cats could there be wandering around, with such distinctive markings? Hester put her hand out and made kissy noises, trying to lure the cat closer. Dean was just fine with it staying where it was, away from him and his allergies. Fortunately, albeit to Hester's disappointment, the cat didn't stick around any longer this time than it had before.

After a little while, Hester and Dean didn't have to stick around anymore, either. “See you for evening prayers,” said Hester, as they reached the main road. Dean waved in response, and turned the opposite way.

“I'm just saying,” came Charlie's voice as Dean passed by Hoeseog. “If Kirk wasn't hot for Spock, then why in season one, episode fifteen, 'Shore Leave,' did he seem so disappointed when it turned out that Spock wasn't the one who was rubbing his back? He even told him to 'Push! Push hard!' That is definitely some homoerotic subtext, right there!”

“You are such a nerd,” said the blonde girl sitting next to her on the bench, albeit with an affectionate smile. She looked vaguely familiar, but Dean couldn't quite place her.

“What are you saying about Captain Kirk?” Dean said in a shocked voice, as he approached the two young women.

“Oh hi, Dean!” said Charlie. “Just that he was hopelessly in love with Mr. Spock.”

“What? No way, Kirk was a man's man!” Dean countered.

“And a 'man's man' can't be bi?” Charlie asked, with an amused look. She was pronouncing “bi” like “bee” again, but this time Dean knew what she meant.

“No, I didn't mean it like– Help me out here,” he said, turning to Charlie's friend.

“Oh no,” said the blonde. “You walked into that all by yourself.” She took a swig from her water bottle and continued to look on, amused.

“Well, he had a different girlfriend, like, every week,” said Dean, having a seat on Charlie's other side.

“But he didn’t, really,” said Charlie. “In all three years of the show, he only had four confirmed hookups, plus three they left vague. So it’s more like twice a year! And besides, lots of slash fans believe they didn't get together until the motion picture era. During the original series, it all remained unspoken. Which helps explain why Kirk could never find a woman he could settle down with, no? Cause he was pining for somebody else!”

“I thought that was because the women always conveniently died by the end of the episode,” Dean said. “And what's a 'slash fan'?”

“It's subtext versus maintext, hon,” said Charlie. “And 'slash' is male/male or female/female pairings in fandom. Though the latter is usually called 'femslash' because as usual, women are the marked gender.”

“I think you're just confusing the poor boy even more,” said Charlie's friend. “Remember, not everybody is studying sociology and critical theory at university.”

“Hey, I understood part of that! Something about girl-on-girl, right?” said Dean, with a cheeky grin. Charlie gave him a playful swat on the arm.

The blonde girl rolled her eyes. “This is the guy you told me was 'super cool'?”

“Oh, you've been talking about me?” asked Dean, still grinning.

The tips of Charlie's ears turned pink. “He is, honest! Underneath all that macho swagger, at least!” She stuck her tongue out at Dean.

Dean returned the gesture, then turned his attention toward the blonde. “I do know you from somewhere, then, don't I?”

“I'm Jo,” she said, holding out her hand. “Charlie pointed you out to me at last week's music night, but the room was way too crowded to get a proper introduction.” The memory came rushing back to Dean as he shook her hand.

“Right, the night Cas brought the house down with his accordion,” said Dean.

“I was going to say, the night Anna killed it by singing 'Amazing Grace,' but I guess we all think our own house did the best,” said Jo.

“Really? Cause I thought the 1812 Overture, with Benjamine and Bela from Vierge, was the most impressive,” said Charlie.

“You're joking,” Dean said to both of them. “It was clearly Cas!” He sighed. “We just need to have another music night, and let the pope judge who's the best.”

Two pairs of confused eyes looked at Dean. “I think you lost us there, Yankee Doodle,” said Jo.

“Shit. Sorry, Maison d'Ange in-joke. With the pope, and the special anniversary week…” The girls were now looking at him with bemused expressions. “It's just this whole thing, okay?”

“Whatever you say,” said Jo.

Fintan and Vitalik were long gone by the time Dean got back. They'd been replaced on the stone wall by Kevin, who was now singing “Hey Jude” and accompanying himself on guitar. Dean listened for a moment, then went inside to fix himself a bowl of iced tea and see what kind of munchies were there. Teatime had seemed odd at first, but now he appreciated having a formally sanctioned snack time in the middle of the afternoon.

Alfie was sitting at the table, reading some book and fiddling with a pencil he occasionally used to underline passages.

“Oh hey, finished your carving?” asked Dean, seeing the bench leaning against the wall, next to the bookshelf.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, just earlier today. I think it came out pretty well, for someone with no actual training in woodworking.”

Dean agreed. True, it didn't look professional, but it was neat and legible. “Looks good,” he said.

“I'm gonna have to sharpen the hell out of my pocket knife, though,” said Alfie. “I could feel it getting duller and duller as I went.”

“Good thing you didn't cut yourself, then,” replied Dean. “Dull knives can actually be more dangerous than sharp ones.”

“Yeah, my mom taught me that when she gave me my first pocket knife,” said Alfie.

“Your mom?” asked Dean.

“Yeah,” replied Alfie. “She learned knife safety back when she was a Girl Scout. Still has her old Girl Scout knife. It's probably worth something on eBay. Not that she'd ever sell it!”

Dean liked the sound of Alfie's mom. Gotta respect a woman who knows her knives. If you don't, she might stab you.

Field Hospitality during evening prayers started off normally enough. The barracks were quiet, as usual, and the tents were somewhat less quiet, as usual. The occasional group came walking down the sidewalk, and needed to be encouraged to hush up until they were a ways away from the church, as usual. A bit different from usual, though, was the group of young adults who were kicking a soccer ball around in the field.

“Hello, hey there!” said Dean as he and Hester approached. “So who's winning?”

A couple of the boys shrugged. One kicked the ball up and caught it in his hands. “We are not keeping score,” he said.

“If it was up to me, I'd be out here playing with you,” Dean started. “But the brothers, they don't like having group activities going on during prayer times. So maybe you can pick this game up again in a little while, after prayers are over. Yeah?”

The group mumbled a vague response. One girl rolled her eyes.

“Cool, catch you later,” said Dean, saluting with two fingers as he and Hester walked on.

They went back to the tents, and shushed some kids whose squeals and giggles from their tickle fight were getting a bit too loud. They meandered their way through the tents until they cleared the grey tents and saw the field where people had pitched their own tents, brought from home. This had become their unofficial line for where, by their reckoning, they were far enough away that noise wouldn't carry all the way back to the church. So they turned around, and wandered back toward the road again.

Halfway back to the road, they heard the tell-tale sounds of a ball being kicked. Dean wondered if keeping groups away from that playing field today would be a never-ending task – one group leaving, another one arriving. “Hey folks,” he started as they walked up to the new soccer players. Then he recognized the eye-rolling girl's teal headband. “Uh, didn't we already talk to you?” The group stopped playing and looked at Dean, annoyed. “Yeah, sorry to ruin your fun, but we really do need you to hold off on this until after prayers end.”

“It is too dark then!” said teal headband.

“Well then, you can play more tomorrow,” said Hester. She turned to Dean and whispered, “Should we get brother?”

Dean sighed. Between the rule breakers in front of him and the stickler by his side, he felt like the only reasonable adult here.

“Okay, we're sorry,” said one of the boys, picking up the ball. “We stop now.”

“Thank you,” said Dean before he and Hester turned to go.

They had barely made it to the sidewalk before the “thump… thump…” of the ball being kicked around resumed. Dean stopped short. He closed his eyes in exasperation and turned around. As if he really had to look to see if it was the same group.

“We get brother now?” asked Hester.

“The brothers are all at prayers,” replied Dean. “But maybe Pasquale is around somewhere.”

“Māja, probably,” said Hester. It was as good a guess as any, so Dean followed as she led the way.

Sure enough, when they arrived at Māja, Pasquale was leaning over the mail cubbies, riffling through some papers and holding a pen in his mouth.

“Pasquale, we have problem,” said Hester.

Pasquale stood up and took the pen out of his mouth. “Oh? What is wrong?”

Hester quickly explained the situation. An annoyed look developed on Pasquale's face. “Come, I will go with you,” he said, before stalking out the door with Dean and Hester in his wake.

“Hello!” Pasquale called out once they'd reached the soccer field. One of the boys sighed visibly as he picked up the ball and walked closer. Teal headband stood with her hand on her hip, looking thoroughly annoyed. “So who is winning?” Pasquale asked.

“We do not keep score,” the boy replied.

“May I see your ball?” Pasquale asked.

The boy paused for a second, the gears in his head trying to turn, before tossing the ball over to him. Pasquale caught it easily. He tossed it up into the air, caught it, then promptly turned around and started walking away.

“If you want your ball back, come to Māja after prayers end,” he called over his shoulder.

Dean and Hester followed Pasquale as far as the road. “Now, to get the ball back, they will need to have a meeting with a brother,” Pasquale explained with a devious grin. Dean thoroughly approved of his little maneuver.


	22. Week Three, Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Music:
>     * “[Malaika](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fmZtTvv-UbM)” performed by the Soweto Gospel Choir
>     * “[Kalinka](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=beAN0cqlnIo)” on accordion, performed by Oleg Sharov
> 


“What are you so smiley about?” Dean asked as he and Bobby entered Bobby's room.

“Big box arrived last night,” said Bobby. “Full of herbs from Clea.” And indeed, there on the desk sat a hefty looking cardboard box.

“Wow, that's a lot of postage,” said Dean, looking at all the stamps covering the front of the box.

“Yeah, well, airmail ain't cheap,” replied Bobby. “Especially when it's expedited. But given the situation, Brother Marcel himself approved the expense.”

“So let's see what we've got,” said Dean, pushing aside the box flaps. Inside there were six muslin drawstring bags, stamped with the words “Good Night Tea Blend” and an image of a crescent moon partially hidden by a cloud. Dean opened up a bag, and saw a dozen or so small ziplock bags filled with a muddy greenish powder. He did a little quick mental math.

“Uh, not to knock this plan or anything, but I don't see what good seventy-two cups of tea are gonna do in a community of over two thousand,” said Dean.

“Well seventy-two cups wouldn't do much good,” replied Bobby. “But seventy-two of those giant pots full? That's enough to last us two full weeks. I spoke with Clea on the phone, and she said she was making a special mixture, just for us, which she swears is strong enough that one little bag added to a whole cauldron of tea will be enough to do the trick. She just shipped it in her standard 'Good Night Tea' packaging in case Customs decided to open up the box for a peek.”

Dean nodded. That made more sense. It would have to be pretty strong stuff for such a small amount of powder to– he'd opened up a bag to take a whiff, and immediately regretted it. “Damn, this smells nasty!” he exclaimed.

Bobby chuckled at the look on Dean's face. “I'm not surprised. She explained more in the enclosed letter.”

Dean picked up the sheet of paper that was wedged between the stacks of muslin bags, and glanced over it. He was impressed – Clea had clearly put effort into making it look like a standard insert she sent with all her “Good Night Tea Blend” shipments, complete with a “Mama Clea's Teas” logo at the top, and an overall “dirty” look as if it had been photocopied a few too many times.

“Thank you for your purchase of Mama Clea's Good Night Tea Blend,” the letter said, “guaranteed to grant peaceful sleep and pleasant dreams to all who drink of it! Your Good Night Tea is made from the finest herbs, selected for their properties of promoting restful sleep and warding off bad dreams. Ingredients include: Calendula, Anise, Thyme, Rosemary, Hyacinth, and Raspberry Leaf, as well as Mama Clea's proprietary herbal tea blend. Please note that due to the strong nature of this blend, it is best consumed in small quantities. As the herbs in this mix have been selected for their effects rather than their flavors, you may wish to dilute or sweeten the tea as necessary. Thank you again, and may the Spirits grant you sweet dreams!”

“So how do we get this into everyone's tea?” asked Dean, holding the packet up to the light.

“That's where you come in, ya idjit,” said Bobby. “You're gonna be on Breakfast & Tea duty next week, so I'm sure you'll find a way.”

Dean flashed a sarcastic smile. “I'm glad you have so much trust in me,” he said.

“Complete trust,” said Bobby, with a grin of his own.

“So this witch doctor of yours,” started Dean.

“Priestess,” Bobby cut him off. “She may worship a little differently than we do, call God by a different name, but she's just as faithful and deserves just as much respect as anyone here.”

“Right, sorry. Priestess. This priestess of yours, she knows everything?”

“I gave her the 'Reader's Digest' version,” confirmed Bobby. “Rufus assured me that she's worked with hunters plenty of times before. And Voodoo practitioners are used to being discrete,” he added.

Dean nodded thoughtfully.

A moment passed in silence. Then Bobby spoke up, asking, “How ya doing, boy?”

Dean looked over, surprised, and put the bags of tea back into the shipping box. “Uh, I'm okay, I guess,” he said. “Why?”

“Well, technically I'm your contact brother, as well as your hunting partner. I kinda let that slip last week, but I'm supposed to check in with you each week. Be sort of a mentor figure,” he said.

Dean had a skeptical look on his face.

“Humor me, boy. Have a seat. Tell me how you've been.”

Dean obediently went and plopped down onto the chair. “Uh, I've been okay, I guess,” he said.

“Not going crazy from all the God talk, I hope?”

“It's not so bad,” said Dean. “At least there's none of that hellfire and brimstone stuff I occasionally hear back home.”

Bobby chuckled. “Yeah, we're not so big on that kind of preaching here. We're more into the lovey-dovey side of things.”

“Not so big on preaching at all,” added Dean.

“True,” said Bobby. “Leading Bible studies and workshops is about as close as we get to preaching. We prefer to let our prayers and our lives speak for themselves. Like St. Francis of Assisi allegedly said, 'Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.'

“But anyway, what have you been up to, other than working and hunting?”

Dean shrugged. “Hanging with the guys, mostly. There's usually at least one or two chilling in the common room, or the courtyard. They're pretty cool, overall.”

Bobby chuckled. “I'm glad you're getting along. Any you'd call friends?”

“Yeah, there's Charlie. Well, she's not one of 'the guys.' But we met during our field week. It's hard to hang out now that we're auxiliaires, but we ran into each other just yesterday. She's kind of like the little sister I never wanted.

“And Alfie. It's kinda nice to have another American around, even if he is a massive nerd. And Cas – Castiel – man, he's something else,” said Dean with a smile. “He's thinking about coming to America to study, actually. Still waiting to hear back from UC Berkeley. That's not too far from Sammy, ya know.”

“It must be tricky, not being able to tell them why you're really here,” said Bobby.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, “a bit. But I stick as close to the truth as I can, only lie when I have to. I've been able to be a lot more honest than usual, actually.”

“Oh yeah? I remember that life, being honest with people is tough,” said Bobby.

“If my 'job' back home comes up, yeah. But talking about interests? Families, even? And if things start getting too personal, I can just steer the conversation back to the other person. Folks don't even notice, most of the time – everyone loves talking about themselves.”

Bobby chuckled. “I used that trick many times, as a hunter. And early on, as a brother, if other brothers started asking too many questions about my past. I really, really didn't want to lie to them, so there was a fair amount of deflection going on in the beginning.

“Anyway, you managing to have a bit of fun, now and then? Wouldn't want your stay here to be all work and no play,” Bobby said.

“That would make Dean a dull boy. Redrum! Redrum!” Dean quipped. “Eh, I mean it's pretty low-key by my standards, but it's not bad. There was a music night last week, and a couple of our guys performed. Castiel, he was just… awesome. He played for us again the other night, too, and wow.” Dean paused for a moment, looking up at the ceiling and remembering. “You know, forget harps – I'm starting to think that angels play accordions.”

Bobby laughed. “That must be some playing! Do you know if he's performing at the Festival of Nations this afternoon? Maybe I can sneak away for a few to hear this angelic accordion.”

“So that's a real thing? Me and Hester heard a few people mention it during our Field Hospitality patrol, but weren't sure if they were making it up.”

“Yeah, you didn't see the sign-up sheets?” asked Bobby. “You could've sung 'God Bless America' or something, repped the US of A!”

Dean barked a harsh laugh. “Trust me, no one wants to hear me sing. I'm surprised people don't inch away from me when I go to prayers.”

“Ah, I'm sure it's not that bad,” said Bobby.

“Sammy used to say I sounded like a drunken water buffalo,” countered Dean.

Bobby thought for a moment. “I guess the real question, then, is how different is that from a sober water buffalo?”

As he walked up the road to meet with Hester, Dean saw a portable stage and speakers being set up in the small field just south of Kohvik. He wondered if that was for the Festival of Nations, or if there was some other event he also hadn't heard about.

Field Hospitality was pretty much like yesterday. Kids loitering in the big grey tents, who needed to be sent along. Hester wanting to report people to the brothers over the tiniest infractions, who needed to be reigned in. Clotheslines tied to trees, which needed to be moved to fenceposts (if their owners could even be identified, which they usually couldn't). Same old, same old.

After the active part of the job was over though, instead of going to smoke behind Caerwys, Dean wanted to see if the Festival of Nations had started yet. To his disappointment, it had not. The stage and sound system stood by themselves in an otherwise empty field. So they continued around to the meeting tents behind Kohvik and sat to rest there. A couple of Bible study groups were still finishing up inside the tents, but most were gone by now. There were a few green printouts scattered around the ground and benches, and Dean wondered whose job it would be to clean them up. He picked up one from the bench next to him and looked it over. Based on the chapter and verse numbers, it looked like a Bible passage on the top half of the page. And based on the bullet points and question marks, it looked like discussion questions on the bottom. But that was all Dean could glean, since the actual text appeared to be in French.

After their usual routine of talking and smoking for a while, Hester checked her watch and they parted company. Out of curiosity, Dean crossed the road and checked out the flyers in Kuća's windows. Sure enough, he found one for the Festival of Nations. It was scheduled between tea and supper, competing with the various workshops on offer that day. Workshops like (Dean scanned the list posted in the window) “God is at work in us – How can we discover his call?,” “Climate change and loss of biodiversity: between emergency and hope,” “The sacramentality of welcoming the stranger: protecting migrants and refugees,” and “'Between us and you there is a great gulf' (Luke 16:26): Can the rich be saved?” Holy controversy, thought Dean, that is one inflammatory title!

So Dean had about an hour before the Festival. It was just as well – hopefully he'd have a chance to see Cas and actually ask if he was going to perform, instead of just showing up and waiting to find out.

Sure enough, when Dean got back to the common room, Cas was there brewing up a cup of tea. And there was his accordion, it its case, sitting on the bench.

“Hey, you playing in the Festival of Nations?” Dean asked, trying to sound casual and not like he was dying to hear him play again.

“Yes,” said Cas, taking a seat next to his accordion. “I am playing, and Vitalik is singing. We are in second half of Festival.”

“You haven't heard them practicing?” said Eliasz, looking up from the postcard he was writing.

Dean shook his head. He hadn't heard a thing, that he could remember.

“We practice when you are at work, maybe,” suggested Castiel. It sounded plausible enough to Dean. Cas took a sip of his tea, then rummaged around in the cookie basket before pulling out a packet of tea biscuits. He opened the package and pulled out a cookie.

“Hey Castiel,” said Dean, casually strolling up to him.

“Yes, Dean?” he replied.

 

Dean came around behind Cas and rested a hand gently on his shoulder. He bent down so his lips were close to Cas's ear, and said, “Common life!” He snatched the cookie out of Cas's hand, gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze, then darted out of the way to protect his hard-won prize.

Castiel looked at his empty hand for a moment before reaching into the cookie basket again, pulling out another packet of tea biscuits, and throwing it so it hit Dean square in the chest. “There is entire basket of cookies if you want,” said Cas.

“Yeah,” Dean acknowledged, “but I didn't want those cookies. I wanted this one.” He wiggled his eyebrows and shoved the cookie in his mouth.

“Oh, stop flirting,” said Ash, coming down from upstairs.

Dean tried to protest, but could only mumble with his mouth full of cookie.

The back of Cas's neck and tips of his ears turned pink.

Dean chewed and swallowed. “You're just jealous, since your boyfriend is off hooking up with every girl he can fool into thinking he's a catch.”

“Please,” said Ash. “If I was gay, I'd have much better taste than that. But you're right,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I'm pretty sure he's off 'saying Polish prayers' with one of them right now.”

“I just want to know what my country did to deserve being dragged into this,” said Eliasz.

“What does anyone do to deserve Balthazar?” asked Ash, with a sigh.

After a little while, Cas grabbed his accordion to head out to make the Festival call time. Dean hung out with Eliasz and Ash a while longer, then headed up toward Kohvik to watch the Festival of Nations. When he got there, the turnout was bigger than he'd expected. He was able to get close enough to hear, thanks to the speakers mounted up on poles, and he could see if he craned his neck, but the crowd was substantial for the small space.

The people who were part of the acts were crowded up by the sides of the stage. Some were recognizable by the traditional folk costumes they wore. Others wore casual clothing but were clearly performers too, judging by the instruments they held. Dean spotted Castiel and Vitalik among the group on the right side of the stage. It looked like they were the next or second-to-next act, as best Dean could tell.

The current act was a man in a kilt, playing bagpipes. No need to guess what country he was from. Dean thought he recognized him from the auxiliaire music night, too, though he definitely hadn't played bagpipes there.

After he finished, Castiel didn't move but a group of youths took the stage from the left side. The young men wore long white robes, and the young women wore colorful wrap-around skirts and head scarves. “Next, a group from Tanzania, performing the famous Swahili love song ‘Malaika,’ which means ‘Angel’!” said the announcer.

The group sang a capella, with one young woman singing much of the song as a solo and the others providing back-up, before they all joined in for the refrains. Even without understanding the words, Dean could tell that it was a song about longing. Perhaps the love was unrequited, he thought. Or forbidden, or otherwise impossible. And yet, it didn’t come off as sad. It was as if the song’s narrator still clung to hope that circumstances would change, and they could one day finally be with their angel.

Dean applauded when it was over – it was a truly solid act. But then, what he'd really come here for – Castiel and Vitalik took the stage. “And now, a dual-act,” said the announcer, “Castiel from Russia and Vitalik from Ukraine, performing the traditional Russian song, 'Kalinka'!”

The song started off slowly. Vitalik sang the refrain over and over, faster and faster, until it broke through into the first verse. Dean listened, waiting for Castiel's harmonies to seduce him. But the expected wave of desire didn't come. It was a fun song to listen to, to be sure. But the flood of temptation didn't wash over Dean as he'd been hoping. (What? Temptation? Hoping? No way, he was just here to support a friend!) Maybe it was the broad daylight and the large crowd around him, not as intimate as at the auxiliaire music night. Maybe it was the song, the sort of folk song he'd expected the first time he heard Cas play, rather than the passionate classical piece or the familiar rock song. But either way, it just wasn't the rush he'd come to expect from hearing Cas play. He applauded as loudly as he could, nonetheless.

After supper, Dean reported for Field Hospitality duty during evening prayers. They got into their routine: hushing people in one tent, going to the next noisy tent, and repeating. They'd stopped bothering to check the nearest barracks, as they were always silent when they passed by.

Dean and Hester were resting outside the church when they noticed a new group of youths playing soccer in the field. “I take care of it,” said Hester. Dean was, to be honest, perfectly willing to stay sitting right where he was. Hester marched off to the ball-players, and spoke with them briefly. Then, she triumphantly returned with their soccer ball, and brought it over to Māja.

“Did they refuse to stop playing?” Dean asked, when Hester came back over to him.

“No, they agree to stop,” she said.

Dean mentally face-palmed.

“Motyl,” said Eliasz, as Dean walked in the door.

“How about you?” asked Ash, nodding at Domingo.

“Mariposa,” Domingo replied.

“What's going on?” asked Dean.

“I'm trying to prove a point to Zachariah,” replied Ash. “The word 'butterfly' sounds gentle in every language except German.”

“It's 'borboleta' in Portuguese,” volunteered Victor.

“See?” said Ash. “Nice and peaceful. Nothing at all like 'Schmetterling'!” He growled that last word, for effect.

More than half of Maison d'Ange was crammed into the common room. That was unusual, but most of the work was long since over for the day. So if such a large gathering were going to happen, now would be the time. Dean saw two notebooks on the table, for people to leave farewell messages to Domingo and Eliasz before they left this Sunday. He'd have to remember to write something.

“What is it in Chinese?” Ash asked Kevin.

“It’s ‘wu dip’ in Cantonese,” Kevin replied. “And ‘hú dié’ in Mandarin. Both are nicer than 'Schmetterling,' I’d say,” he continued, with a playful grin.

“And in Swedish?” Ash gestured to Adam.

“'Fjäril,'” Adam obliged.

“When the Pope comes,” said Balthazar, “he can tell us what it is in Latin.”

Toshi entered the room. “What is 'butterfly' in Japanese?” Adam immediately asked him.

Toshi blinked, then supplied, “'Chō.'”

“I still say 'kupu-kupu' is best,” said Putu. “And for more than one, is 'kupu-kupu-kupu'!”

“The Indonesian word is adorable!” said Alfie.

“'Spider' is 'laba-laba,'” said Putu. “And 'turtle' is 'kura-kura'!”

“All much cuter than 'Schmetterling,'” said Fintan.

“German can be cute too, you know,” said Adam. “One of their words for ‘kittens’ is ‘Katzenkinder’ – ‘cat children.’ And gloves are ‘Handschuhe,’ which means ‘hand shoes.’”

Dean chuckled, then headed toward the stairs. The last thing he heard as he made his way upstairs was the door opening and then, “Hey Castiel, how do you say 'butterfly' in Russian?”

“Babochka.”

“See? Still better than 'Schmetterling.'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Those are all real workshop titles from the real “St. Chuck's”!
> 



	23. Week Three, Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Christe, lux mundi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHHk3PZiiP4)
>       * The full translation is: “Christ, light of the world, whoever follows you will have the light of life.”
>   * Photos:
>     * [Evening prayers candles](https://i.imgur.com/v6gudHT.jpg)
> 


It was Saturday morning, after breakfast, and Dean had nothing better to do than to finally tackle his housekeeping chore. Cleaning the showers, oh goody. He looked in the cleaning supply closet, and found a scrub brush and scouring cream. The label on the bottle was in French, but it included the phrase “la douche” so Dean figured it was the right thing to use.

He went to the furthest shower first, using a paper towel to grab the nest of hair sitting on top of the drain plate, and then scrubbing the floor, sides, and inside of the door with the scrub brush. He unhooked the shower head and rinsed the scouring cream down the drain, then moved on to the next shower.

“We had a guy here a few weeks ago who worked in sanitation,” came an all too familiar voice as Dean was working on the second shower. “He told us about all the germs, and how you're really just moving them around.”

“Great, Zachariah. Exactly what I needed to hear right now,” said Dean, as he scrubbed the shower walls a little harder.

“It's really gross,” Zachariah added. He stood there, watching for several awkward moments, before moving along. Friggin' fantastic, thought Dean. Cause germs are exactly what I want to be thinking about right now.

Dean finished the second shower, and moved on to the third and last. (At least, until he went and cleaned the one upstairs. And then went next door to clean the showers in Maison d'Ange II, too. Sigh.) He was just picking up the bottles of shampoo and body wash to scrub away the soapy rings they left on the ledge, when another voice interrupted his work.

“It is usual, in America, to shower with clothing on?”

Dean looked over and smiled at Castiel. Without missing a beat he replied, “Oh yeah, we're very modest in America! That's not how you do it in Russia? What, do you get naked, like dirty, dirty harlots?”

“What is 'dirty harlot'?” asked Cas with feigned innocence, playing up his accent so it was ten times thicker than usual. “I no understand English.”

Dean turned to face Cas straight on, raising his eyebrows in a skeptical look. “That's funny, cause I could have sworn I'd heard you speak English about a hundred times before now.”

“Ah,” said Cas, shrugging his shoulders. “Is only St. Chuck's English.”

Dean leaned out of the shower, putting his face right up in Cas's personal space (even by European standards, he reckoned). “So I could say something absolutely filthy,” he said in a low voice, “and you would have no clue what I said?”

Cas's eyes widened, before he quickly looked down at his shoes. Dean was afraid that he'd crossed the line, but then Castiel responded. His voice was barely above a whisper, and Dean could swear he heard it shaking, but he could make out the words clearly. “I do not know, maybe you try and we find out.”

Before Dean could react, they were interrupted by the sound of boots clunking across the floor, and Dino running past to get to a toilet. During that distraction, Cas quickly turned and bolted up the stairs, leaving Dean hanging halfway out of the shower.

Dean took a few deep breaths, trying to process what had just happened. Then he remembered the scrub brush in his hand, and got back to work.

“And remember,” said Brother Gerhard during the after lunch announcements, “after tea today, there is an auxiliaire Bible study. If you don't have work during that time, you're strongly encouraged to attend.” Fat chance, thought Dean. He'd have to remember to hide when that came around.

After the closing prayer, Dean got up and headed to work. He was glad this was his last day doing it, to be honest. It was awfully monotonous and rather thankless. At least the field people would be more likely to appreciate his work for Breakfast & Tea duty next week. Now he just had to figure out how to sneak Clea's herbs into the pots of tea. He shook his head. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it. No point stressing about it now.

Field Hospitality went exactly the same as it had the day before, and the day before that. Most people were grumbling but compliant. A few took a little more urging, and received premature threats from Hester to sic a brother on them. And the shift ended with Dean and Hester sitting behind Caerwys again, rolling cigarettes. Dean couldn't get his mind off of what had happened with Cas. It was just playful banter, right? But it hadn't felt like just playful banter. Cas probably had no clue what he did to Dean – how could he? Did Russian girls swoon for his playing, the way Dean did?

Dean felt a warm hand on his. His brain didn't register it for a moment. Then he dragged his mind back to the present, and realized it was Hester's hand. “Oh, sorry,” Dean said. He turned his hand palm-up so she could take her lighter back. “My mind drifted for a minute there.” Hester picked up the lighter, but her hand lingered in his a little longer than necessary.

“What were you thinking about?” she asked.

Dean stiffened. “Uh, nothing really,” he said in a rush. “Just, uh, my car.”

“Your… car? That look on your face was for your car?”

Shit, what look had he had on his face? “Well hey, she's a real beaut. She's pushing forty years old, but you'd never guess it. Takes a little extra TLC, but it's worth it just to hear her purr.”

“You must really love your car,” Hester said with a surprised expression.

Dean shrugged. “She was my home– uh, like a second home, when I was a kid. We've been through a lot together.”

“You are like my brother,” Hester laughed. “Always, he is looking for new things to do to his car. First, huge spoiler on back. Next, fancy rims on wheels. Now he wants dark windows, but Father says this is illegal, and–” she stopped short, noticing Dean's pained cringe.

“Why would anyone do that to a perfectly good car?” he asked. “I am nothing like your brother! I would never defile Baby like that!”

Hester threw up her hands and sighed. “I will never understand boys and their cars!” she exclaimed.

When teatime finally rolled around, Hester bid Dean goodbye with a cheerful “See you tonight!” Dean waved as he turned toward the road.

Dean did not, in fact, remember to hide after tea. So as Adam started trying to herd the other auxiliaires out the door and over to the Bible study, Dean got swept up with them. Well, isn't that just spectacular, he thought. Adam and company were among the last to arrive at a small, octagonal building near the church. The building was covered in windows, giving the impression of a large gazebo with walls.

The benches were already full, as were most of the spots on the floor in front of the benches. Adam and the others quickly filtered in and found seats. Dean ended up half walking, half being pushed, toward the left side of the room. There, he saw one open space on the floor – right next to Castiel. Okay, he thought, that's cool. Nothing at all awkward about sitting next to a buddy. The word “buddy” was starting to feel inadequate.

“Okay, I think we are all here now,” said the brother sitting in the room's one and only chair. “For those who do not know me, I am Brother Arnaud. Welcome to our auxiliaire Bible study.” He pulled out a stack of grey papers and gave it to the boy on his right. “I'm passing around today's Bible passage in English, but if you brought a Bible in your own language, feel free to read that instead.” Dean took a sheet and handed the rest to Castiel. He felt a small pang of disappointment when Cas's hand didn't brush against his as he accepted the stack.

“Okay,” said Brother Arnaud when the papers had made it all the way around the room. “I'll give you a moment to look the passage over, and then why don't we read it aloud.”

Dean realized he'd been staring at Cas's hand, and quickly directed his attention to the paper in his own hand. He suppressed a groan. It contained a surprisingly long passage, Genesis 1:1-2:3.

Brother Arnaud turned to Jo, who was sitting on his left. “Why don't you start us off?”

“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth…” began Jo.

The reading went around the circle until they reached the last verse. “So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it,” read a boy, “because on it God rested from all the work that he had done in creation.”

“Excellent,” said Brother Arnaud. “So, how do we approach this text? What presuppositions do we bring to it? We can bring literalism, and reject any scientific theories which contradict a literal reading. Now this is ridiculous, of course.”

“That's what _some_ people think,” Dean heard the girl next to him mutter.

Brother Arnaud continued, presumably not having heard this commentary on his lesson. “'Days' were not even created until day four, so obviously it cannot be literal. That's just absurd. This literal approach didn't become popular until well into the modern era.

“So literalism is out. What about concordism? That is the attempt to make science and the Biblical text agree with each other. People can get rather creative with this, but ultimately, there are just too many discrepancies.

“The third option, which we are left with, is to recognize that the Bible is a book of faith, not a book of science. Now, who was here at our last Bible study, two weeks ago, and can tell me what 'faith' or 'belief' means?”

A couple of hands went up, and Brother Arnaud pointed to one of the girls Dean vaguely remembered from music night. “Yes, Anna,” he said.

“'I give my heart,'” said Anna.

“Precisely,” replied Brother Arnaud. “To recap, these terms originally meant 'loyalty,' 'trust,' 'commitment.' The notion that they mean intellectual assent to a particular claim or doctrine didn't come about until the nineteenth century. So when we say that we take this creation story seriously, that doesn't have to mean we accept it as fact. It means we express trust and commitment to the truths this text embodies.

“This account is not written to describe events in the distant past, but to help us understand important things about the present. So the question this text addresses is not 'how did everything come to be,' but 'why' and 'what does it mean.' The story informs us about how God is, which has implications for how we are to be, too.

“For example, who noticed the three things that God blesses?”

There was more rifling of papers, before Kevin spoke up. “Birds and sea animals… human beings… and the sabbath!”

“Excellent…” Brother Arnaud waited for Kevin to provide his name.

“Kevin.”

“Excellent, Kevin. Life, humanity, and the seventh day. And these three blessings correlate with three responsibilities. Our ecological responsibility to the other life on this planet; our ethical responsibility to our fellow human beings; and our liturgical responsibility to God, to celebrate God and creation.

“A question we've been dancing around is: are faith and science compatible? I think you can guess that my answer is 'yes'! But let's look at why. This question really asks something slightly different: What's the truth? Science or religion? But that's a false premise – it doesn't have to be one or the other. Truth exists within a reference frame, and depends on the language register in which it's expressed. And there are many language registers: literary, legal, philosophical, poetic, humorous, scientific, theological… But this is very abstract, so let's use an analogy.”

Brother Arnaud took a gold ring off his finger and held it up. “What is this?”

There was a brief pause while everyone tried to figure out the catch, before they started answering.

“A ring.”

“A wedding ring.”

“The ring from your vows.”

Brother Arnaud spoke up again. “I'm hearing a lot of true answers. But what if I simply said, 'this is a circle of metal.' Is that also true?”

The group murmured their agreement.

“So from a scientific standpoint, I might say that this is a circle of metal. I could elaborate on the metallic composition, the weight, the density… But from a sociological standpoint, I would say something more like, it's a symbol of my commitment, a symbol of my relationship with God and with my brothers here in the Community of St. Charles. Now, which answer is more 'true'?

“Science is an incredible tool for representing reality. For that purpose, nothing else comes close. But it's not as useful for answering questions of 'why,' of meaning. For that, we turn to art, poetry, religion. I can honestly say that the creation story we've been discussing is true. I can also honestly say that the sciences including cosmology, geology, and evolution are true. Because when I make those statements, I'm speaking in different registers, both of which are indispensable components of how I understand the world and my place within it.”

Dean took a stealthy glance at the young woman sitting next to him. She was holding her copy of the hand-out so tightly that the edges had crumpled in her hands. Dean had to suppress a smirk.

“So, I hope this has given you all something to think about. It can be a lot to digest, I know! So let us end with a prayer, yes?”

Dean saw nearly everyone bow their head.

“Heavenly Father,” Brother Arnaud began, “we thank you for the wondrous truths contained in your Word. And we thank you for the many ways you have given us to understand the world, and ourselves. Help us to be responsible stewards of your creation, loving brothers and sisters to each other, and faithful servants to you. Grant that we may grow in wisdom of both the head and the heart, and never stop seeking truth in all its forms. In the name of your Son we pray, Amen.”

A wave of “Amens” rippled throughout the room, followed by a great shuffling of feet as people stood up and got ready to head back to their respective houses for supper.

Dean noticed Castiel still sitting on the floor. He was resting with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his interlocked fingers, and had a serious expression on his face. Dean paused for a moment, then extended a hand to help Cas up. Cas looked up at Dean and blinked, as if coming out of a trance. He hesitated for a second, looking into Dean's eyes, then took the outstretched hand and climbed to his feet. They walked out of the building together.

“Very interesting Bible study,” said Castiel once they were outside.

“Uh, yeah,” replied Dean. “I didn't know, well, most of that stuff.” He'd never actually been to Sunday School, but he got the feeling they didn't teach this kind of thing there.

“I feel like maybe it should shake my faith,” said Castiel. “But in a good way? If that makes sense?”

“Yeah, no kidding,” said Dean. He cringed inside at how generic that response was, but he wasn't sure what else to say and it seemed safe, at least.

After a moment, Cas added, “Who it was who talked about context and Bible recently? Just few days ago, someone else also was talking about importance of context, but I cannot remember who–” He stopped in his tracks. Dean stopped too and turned to see what was wrong, and saw Cas staring wide-eyed at nothing in particular. “It was–” His voice hitched. “I remember, it was Alfie.” Cas quickly looked down at his shoes.

Shit. That meant Cas had, in fact, overheard Dean's conversation with Alfie. “Oh, right.” Dean said. “Yeah, he did say context was important,” he continued.

“I did not mean to listen!” Cas rushed to add. “I just… I was in garden, and…”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah man, it's cool,” he said, though his voice came out a bit strained. “People overhear stuff, it's no biggie.”

“I… have never heard that subject talked about, in that way. It was… interesting.”

Dean silently cursed Cas's perfectly neutral choice of words. Surely if he disapproved of what he'd overheard, he'd have shown it by now, right? Instead of… whatever had happened by the showers. Unless, of course, he only took issue with Alfie's side of the conversation, and considered Dean an innocent bystander to Alfie's sinful rhetoric. Dammit, what was the man really thinking?

After a moment, Cas looked up and over at Dean. Dean casually turned to look back at Cas, and Cas turned as well so they stood properly face-to-face. Cas searched Dean's eyes. Dean wondered what he saw there. Another couple of moments passed. Dean licked his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. Then Cas reached out, squeezed Dean's arm gently while flashing a shy smile, and continued walking.

Dean kept walking too, and nearly tripped over his feet.

“Are you okay?” asked Cas.

“Yeah, yeah I'm fine,” said Dean. “Must've, uh, slipped on a pebble.” Shit. This was the most high-stakes game of “Gay or European?” he'd ever had to play. He'd been damn sure Cas was just European, until today. Was what happened just now some kind of friendly gesture, or… How was he supposed to react? Okay. Relax Dean, he thought. Either he's just being friendly in a touchy-feely European sort of way, or he's into you. Either way… Dean slung an arm around Cas's shoulders and pulled him into a quick side-hug. Yeah, that was okay. Wasn't it? It seemed to be. Cas didn't yank himself away, at least.

Hester walked by, looking startled by something. Dean vaguely wondered what her deal was, but was too distracted by Cas to pay her much mind. He and Cas walked back to Maison d'Ange, shoulders bumping into each other every once in a while.

“Hello,” Hester said, curtly, when Dean arrived outside the church.

“We made it!” said Dean. “Final Field Hospitality shift!”

“Hm,” she offered noncommittally.

The prayer service began, the songs of the congregation began to carry, and Dean and Hester wordlessly began their patrol around the tents. Hester seemed shorter with the kids than usual, even quicker (if that was possible) to threaten them with a meeting with a brother. Dean wondered what bug had crawled up her bonnet, but figured maybe she was just tired because it was the end of the week. Her shortness did, at least, have the desired effect of convincing folks to pipe down.

Nobody was playing ball today, thankfully. There were the normal groups of people loitering just outside the church, listening without participating, but they were no noisier than usual. That is, until the candles were distributed toward the end of the service. Dean saw a youth emerge from the church with a handful of small taper candles and distribute them to her friends outside. She then went back in, only to emerge again with her candle lit and proceeded to light the other candles. Dean peeked in through an open door, and saw a field of small, flickering flames throughout the entire church.

The congregation, appropriately enough, was singing a prayer that went “Christe, lux mundi, qui sequitur te habebit lumen vitae, lumen vitae.” Again, Dean's smattering of Latin came in handy. He wasn't sure of all the words, but he could tell it had something to do with “Christ, light of the world.”

Dean and Hester walked through the field of tents again, doing their duty. “I love the candles on Saturday nights,” said Hester. “They are such a good reminder for the lost to repent,” she added, giving Dean a pointed look. Dean was a bit skeptical of her interpretation, but didn't know enough about the symbolism to challenge her on it. Also, he was starting to get the impression that her foul mood had something to do with him, but he couldn't for the life of him remember having done anything which might have offended her.

They finished another trip around the tents, then returned to the church again. The candles were starting to go out. (They were only a fraction of the way burned down, Dean noticed with surprise.) The group of friends Dean had seen before was desperately trying to make their half dozen candles last longer by huddling and bringing them together to produce one, significantly larger flame.

After the candles went out, there were only a couple more songs until the service let out. Dean watched as people started streaming out, depositing their spent candles in boxes by the doors. Not long after, without the normal effort to redirect loud groups of people down to Kohvik, Hester abruptly said “Well, goodbye Dean,” turned, and walked away. Dean hoped that whatever was bothering her, it would be better next week. Then he saw Castiel leaving the church, and hurried over to walk with him back to Maison d'Ange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Extended Scene:
>     * The Bible study in this chapter has been cut down from its original length (you're welcome, lol). [The uncut version is here](http://brotherfaithsisterdoubt.tumblr.com/post/180695966085).
>   * The content of the auxiliaire Bible study comes from a mixture of sources. One was a workshop at the real “St. Chuck's” in August, 2012, on the topic “Are Science and Faith Compatible?” One was a Bible introduction at the real “St. Chuck's” in July, 2015 – a brother actually ridiculed creationism, right there in the middle of the lesson! I wanted to friggin' hug him! Another source is the book _The Case for God_ by Karen Armstrong (terrible title, wonderful book). And finally, this and other assorted theological parts of this fic include content from seminary classes I've taken.
> 



	24. Week Three, Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * The ecumenical community in Scotland that one of the kids mentions is also [a real place](https://iona.org.uk/). I haven't been there yet, but my friend Sophie said she'd go with me and I'm gonna hold her to that!
>   * Some of the countries where background characters are from are little shout-outs to other DCBB writers I met in the DCBB Discord chat. So if you're seeing this, my Austrian or Panamanian friends (or Finnish, but that's in a future chapter), yes I mean you!
> 


“Alright, divide up into three groups,” Dean instructed the group of youths standing in front of him. It was Sunday afternoon, and he'd been tasked with organizing the cleaning of the barracks. The auxiliaire in charge of cleaning jobs had explained that invariably, some visitors decide they want to stay for a second week, so they're put to work on Sundays when all the other visitors are coming or going.

“Okay, group A,” he said, pointing to the left-most cluster of workers. “You're going to sweep the floors, so get those brooms and dustpans. Group B,” he pointed to the center cluster, “take the fitted sheets off of the mattresses. When you bring them back, I need them in bundles of ten – one sheet, with nine more tied up inside it. And Group C,” he pointed to the last cluster, “you'll hang back for a few minutes while Group B gets to work. Then, you'll put these nice, clean sheets on each mattress.” He held up the bag of new sheets they'd picked up at the blanket barrack on the way over, and handed it to the closest member of Group C. “Everyone clear on their assignments? Great, then let's get started.” Groups A and B went to work.

“You're an auxiliaire, right?” asked a girl from Group C.

“Uh, yeah,” said Dean.

“Do you want to become a brother?”

Dean snorted. “No, no definitely not. That's, uh, not my calling.”

“I want to be an auxiliaire next year, when I'm old enough,” the girl continued. “I just wish there was such a thing as St. Chuck's sisters, so I could join. I'm not Catholic, so there aren't many monastic options.”

“There's another ecumenical community in Scotland, I think,” said another girl. “They have men and women.”

“Do they have St. Chuck's music, though?” the first girl asked.

“No, I don't think so. But I've never actually been there. I might go next Spring holiday, though.”

The two girls talked a little more about monastic communities and travel plans. Dean kept watch to see the other two groups' progress. After a little while, when the sheet-removers had gotten a decent head start, he sent the sheet-replacers on their way.

Dean heard singing voices approaching from behind him. After a second, he recognized the tune as “The Song That Gets On Everybody's Nerves.” Oh lord, why? When Sammy learned that song back in second grade, he'd started singing it incessantly. And true to its name, it had gotten on every single one of Dean's nerves. John, for his part, found Dean's consternation hilarious and therefore let it go on a lot longer than he would have otherwise.

As the singing crowd got closer, Dean could make out the lyrics to their song.

“We are cleaning the toilets of St. Chuck's,

“The toilets of St. Chuck's, the toilets of St. Chuck's,

“We are cleaning the toilets of St. Chuck's,

“Where everybody goes!”

Dean groaned at the changed lyrics. Somehow, it was even worse this way. He turned to see the singers, and sure enough it was a small horde of teens and twenty-somethings carrying toilet brushes mops, squeegees, buckets, and all the other tools of the trade. And leading them, with a bemused look on his face, was none other than Castiel.

“Such glamorous work,” Dean called out to Cas.

“Exciting life of auxiliaire,” Cas called back, leading his kids into the barrack bathrooms.

Dean approached the big kitchen only five minutes later than he was supposed to have been there, and poked his head in.

“…Site Seven for the entire month. I think Sister Veronika hates me,” a young woman with wavy brown hair was saying.

“I doubt it's personal, Meg,” countered Jo. “I heard they assign jobs by pulling names out of a hat.”

“Well, then I think the hat hates me,” Meg rejoined.

“Hello, Dean,” came a familiar voice.

“Cas!” said Dean. “What are you doing here?”

“I have Breakfast & Tea this week,” Cas replied, stating the obvious.

“Oh, right, of course.” Dean felt a little foolish.

Jo cleared her throat. “Okay, everyone is here now. So let me introduce myself. I am Jo, from Sweden, and I am the Meals Coordinator. This week, you four will be in charge of overseeing the preparation and serving of breakfast and tea. It's kind of in the name. You will have a team of visitors to help you, of course, but you know how visitors are. They need close supervision, or who knows what they'll do.”

“Usually, sit around doing nothing,” the other young woman in the room chimed in. Cas and the third boy in the room chuckled.

“Or,” countered Jo, “they'll get the sugary drinks everywhere, making the entire kitchen a sticky mess. And guess who will have to stay late to clean it. But before we talk about making the tea and cleaning up afterwards, let's make proper introductions.”

They went around the circle. In addition to Dean and Castiel, there was Meg from Austria, and Isaac from Panama. Dean thought he might have seen them around once or twice, but wasn't really sure.

“First,” said Jo, “let's just get the kitchen dress code out of the way. Everyone in the kitchen must wear an apron, and a hairnet for long hair or a hat for short hair. Also, there are no sleeveless shirts or open-toed shoes. It will be your job to enforce this, and everyone is asked if they have appropriate clothing before they are assigned to a kitchen job, so don't believe them if they claim they only have sandals. Got it? Good.”

The next half hour was spent learning where the giant pots and spoons for making the tea and cocoa were, how much powder to mix with how much water, and the like. They also learned where the snacks for afternoon tea were kept, how many crates to set up with pitchers of tea and bags of snacks for the various work groups which received an extra snack time, and how many boxes of butter pats and chocolate sticks or jam to set out for breakfast. It was far too much to remember, but thankfully, all of this information was printed on laminated sheets of paper hanging on the walls.

“And come,” said Jo, leading them out the kitchen door. “I will show you the bread barrack, where you will get the bread rolls each morning.”

The bread barrack was a small building right next to the kitchen. Upon entering, Dean was hit by the warm, yeasty aroma before his eyes even registered what he was seeing – the small, one-room building was dedicated entirely to bread. There were only a few leftover baskets of baguettes at this hour, but the empty baskets stacked high in every corner and on every table bore witness to how full the room must have been that morning, before it had all been eaten.

Finally, the instructions had been conveyed, the tour had been given, and the questions had been answered. Except, of course, Dean's big question – how on earth was he going to sneak Clea's herb mixture into the tea? That, he would have to figure out on his own.


	25. Week Four, Monday

Monday morning dawned much, much too early. The Breakfast & Tea team had to be at the kitchen by seven o'clock, but Dean had to go even earlier to see if he could get the herbs into the pots before everyone else arrived. He fumbled blindly around the nightstand until he found his alarm clock, and silenced it before its unwelcome shrieking woke anyone else. Then, with great effort, he dragged himself out of bed so he wouldn't accidentally fall asleep again. The sacrifices he made for these people.

Dean dressed, slipped a few of Clea’s herb bags into his pocket, and tip-toed downstairs. As he passed the coffee maker, he realized the downside of this job. Eating breakfast with the field people meant that he wouldn't get to have a proper cup of coffee. If he wanted to fix that, he'd have to get up even earlier tomorrow to brew a pot before he left. He groaned, and trudged out the door.

“Dean!” called Charlie. “Good morning! What are you doing here so early?”

Shit. As pleased as he'd normally be to see Charlie, it didn't change the fact that he'd been spotted. “Uh, I woke up a little early and couldn't get back to sleep,” bluffed Dean, hoping his actual tired state wasn't too obvious.

“Well help me unload this bread, then,” Charlie continued, grabbing a basket of baguettes from the back of a truck. “Pain Céleste,” the logo on the side of the truck read, the words curving around a stylized drawing of clouds and bundled wheat stalks. “There are plenty of baskets still left to go!” She headed off toward the bread barrack, passing a woman Dean didn't recognize who was on her way back to the truck. She was wearing a baseball hat with the same logo that was on the side of the truck.

Dean sighed. He couldn't think of any way to insist that he had to start the tea and cocoa right now, before everyone else arrived, without arousing suspicion. So with nothing better to do, he grabbed a basket and carried it over to the bread barrack. He'd been right – by the time everything was unloaded, the room was packed so tight with bread baskets that there was only a narrow path to walk through. The smell of freshly baked baguettes was making Dean hungry.

The others assigned to Breakfast & Tea duty had arrived by the time Dean finished helping Charlie. So he'd gotten up extra early for nothing. Lovely.

They got to work mixing up the vats of tea and cocoa, and setting the other breakfast components out under the food pavilion in anticipation of the hungry horde which would pour out of the church after morning prayers. Then, they mixed up even more tea and poured it out into pitchers to go in the snack crates for Rubbish Collection, Site Seven, and other jobs which received extra, mid-morning snacks to make up for their odious responsibilities.

When everyone else was busy enough that they wouldn't notice him slipping away for a moment, Dean went to check the stoves, just to be safe. No sign of a monster living behind them. Just as Dean had expected – it still probably wasn't a kikimora.

Right around the time they finished up all of their tasks, the bells for morning prayers began to ring. “Who is going to stay here to guard the food?” asked Isaac.

“I can do it,” Dean volunteered. A couple of the visitors raised their hands too. “There rest of you can go get your prayer on,” said Dean. “We'll hold down the fort.” The other auxiliaires and visitors removed their aprons and hairnets, hung them up for later, and took off toward the church. Partway there, Cas turned and looked back for a moment. Dean gave him a little salute. Cas smiled, then continued on his way.

“So, let us welcome the new members of our household, yes?” said Brother Nathanaël when lunch had wound down. There were four new boys this week. Franz, from Germany, with frosted tips that would have looked better, like, five years ago; Raphael, from Côte d'Ivoire, wearing a brightly colored dashiki and kufi cap; Prakash, from India, in his own country's traditional shalwar kameez with embroidery around the collar; and Mathieu, from France, in questionably tight jeans.

As they all rose to clear the table, Dean overheard Zachariah. “So why aren't you wearing your lederhosen?” he sneered. “You're from Bavaria, aren't you? You have the accent. I thought your people always wore lederhosen.” Dean turned, and saw that he was talking to Franz. Franz merely responded by raising an eyebrow quizzically.

Dean went back into the common room to relax. There was plenty of time before he had to help prepare and serve tea. He grabbed one of the decks of cards from the bookshelf and dealt out a game of Klondike. Toshi was at the whiteboard, looking over the list of everyone's jobs for this week.

“Why you do work with Brother Robert?” asked Toshi.

“Huh?” said Dean, looking up.

“Every week, it is same,” Toshi elaborated. “Dean W., Work with Brother Robert.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Dean, stalling while he thought of something. “Right, that. The project with Brother Robert. Uh, well, it's for the special anniversary week. We're… organizing the monastery's archives.” That sounded vague yet boring enough that it ought to discourage too many questions.

“For three week?” Toshi pressed.

“Yeah, well, the archives are a real mess. Gotta catalogue everything. Brother Robert doesn't wanna have to teach the system to a new assistant every week, so he's sticking with the same guy for as long as he can.”

Toshi nodded. He seemed satisfied with the explanation. “I prefer new job every week,” he said. “One job gets boring.”

Dean shrugged. “Well, I came here to help out, didn't I? So I guess that means doing whatever they tell me to do!” That, at least, was pretty close to the truth.

“You play Solitaire?” Toshi said, nodding at Dean's spread of cards.

“Yeah, but if you wanna join, we can play something else,” Dean replied, grateful that he'd finally changed the subject to something safe. “How about Gin Rummy?”

Toshi smiled and nodded as he took a seat on the bench near Dean.

As he stepped outside to leave for Breakfast & Tea, Part Two, Dean got hit in the face with a stream of water. “Sorry!” Kevin called out, re-aiming his squirt gun to get Juraj with his next attack. While Kevin was distracted, Toshi ran up from across the courtyard and sniped him. Dean chuckled and shook his head.

Dean got to the kitchen before anyone else, just like he'd hoped. He set out six giant pots as quickly as he could, then pulled the six small bags of herbs out of his pocket. He emptied one bag into each pot, then realized the problem with this plan. Sure, the amount of herbs per pot was small, but it was still enough that someone could easily see the scattered powder just by glancing into the pot. He had to hide it somehow. And he knew just the way.

Dean went to the cabinet where the bags of iced tea powder were kept, and grabbed a couple of them. He tore the bags open and poured their contents into the first two pots, shaking them around so there were thin layers across most of the pots' bottoms. Then he grabbed another two bags from the cabinet and put them into the next two pots.

“Is easier, I think,” said a voice from the doorway, “to put all bags in first pot, then all bags in second pot, instead of first bag in all pots, then second bag in all pots.”

Dean looked up from the last two pots to see Cas looking at him, amused.

“Uh, yeah probably,” said Dean, thinking fast. “I thought it might be easier this way, though, to keep track of which pots were tea and which were cocoa. But, uh, then I remembered. There's no cocoa at teatime, only at breakfast.” Dammit, that excuse was pathetic.

“You make it difficult for yourself,” said Cas, shaking his head but smiling. He went to the cupboard to grab more bags of iced tea powder, and started pouring more into the first pot.

Within minutes, they were joined by the rest of the crew. They quickly got into the swing of things, pouring the water, mixing the tea, and fetching the boxes of cookies. Then, the tea and cookies and crates full of bowls had to be delivered to each distribution point. This was by far the hardest part, since – even with the help of lids and wheeled trollies – the full pots were heavy and kept trying to slosh over the sides. Then over the next forty-five minutes, they served a couple thousand bowls to thirsty visitors. Each team took turns between the tasks of pouring ladle-fulls of tea and handing out cookies. Finally, it was time to lug everything back to the kitchen. Once the leftover cookies were back in storage, and the empty pots were brought over for Breakfast & Tea Washing-Up to deal with, they were all free to go.

Other than the early morning start, this job was easily Dean's favorite one so far. He didn't have to handle garbage. His co-workers weren't half bad (one in particular was pretty damn– Dean shook his head to clear it). And he felt like he was actually contributing something to the community. Plus, the job actually helped the hunt for once, and he was finally doing something tangible to protect these people. Probably. Hopefully.


	26. Week Four, Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Aber du weißt den Weg für mich](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7DiR--b9DQ) (German)
>     * [Jésus le Christ, lumière intérieure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqoYsauFa2I) (French)
>     * [Gospodi pomilui](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QANTFlee95A) (Russian)
>     * [Behüte mich, Gott](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6-UneKFn2I) (German)
>     * [Wysławiajcie Pana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6rdOIyoXXgY) (Polish)
>   * Photos:
>     * [Butterfly bush with bees](https://i.imgur.com/Mt89Woh.jpg)
> 


Once again, morning came far too soon. Dean was up even earlier today so he would have time to make himself some coffee before sneaking off early to breakfast duty. He wasn't sure exactly when Charlie and the Pain Céleste lady started unloading the bread delivery, but he also wasn't sure he could count on having the privacy to lace the afternoon tea every day, either. So in spite of himself, he decided to give lacing the morning tea and cocoa another shot.

Sure enough, Charlie was already hard at work when Dean arrived. “Couldn't sleep again?” she asked when she saw him.

“Nah, I slept okay,” said Dean. “I just figured that if I have to be here so damn early anyway, you might appreciate another pair of hands.”

Charlie smiled at him. “Well, I certainly won't say no! The more people helping, the fewer baskets I have to carry!” Dean mentally cursed himself as he went to grab a paper hat from the kitchen to cover his hair. He was pretty sure he'd just signed up to help Charlie for the rest of the week.

“So you're on Breakfast & Tea, then?” Charlie asked as they carried a couple of baskets to the bread barrack.

“Yup,” answered Dean. “All week!”

“You must be working with Jo, then! She's pretty great,” said Charlie.

“'Pretty great,' huh? Does someone have a crush?” Dean teased.

“What? No! Jo is a friend!” countered Charlie. The emphasis she put on the name “Jo,” however, made Dean suspect that there could well be someone else she wasn't mentioning. Someone who was indeed something other than a friend. Dean waited for her to fill him in on the details, but none were forthcoming.

Soon, the supply of bread in the back of the truck dwindled, and bread barrack was crammed full. Charlie stepped back to look at their work. Satisfied, she took off her hairnet and shook out her hair. “Well, I'm gonna go get washed up before morning prayers,” she said. “Have fun mixing up the cocoa!” And with that, she darted off toward Maison du Baptême.

This was Dean's chance. He just had to get the herbs into the pots before anyone else from Breakfast & Tea arrived. He headed into the kitchen and got to work setting out the pots. He pulled a bag of herbs from his pocket, and was about to add it to the first pot when he had an idea. He went and grabbed the giant spoons they used to mix the powdered tea or cocoa with hot water. As he was placing a spoon in each pot, however, the door burst open and the first of the Breakfast & Tea crew entered and went to don their aprons and hats or hairnets. Before long, the entire complement arrived and they all got to work preparing the morning meal. Dean's plan would, once again, have to wait until afternoon tea.

Dean scooped the gross little bits of pasta and vegetables out of the sink drain and threw them away. He didn't mind washing the dishes, really, but he hated that last part. But after washing the feeling of slippery, water-logged food waste off his hands and rinsing down the sink's interior, he was done. He stretched and looked around to see what the other guys were doing with their after-lunch free time.

Dino and Putu were on a bench by the dining tables, laughing about something. Prakash was sitting on the stone wall and listening to Zachariah rant about something, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else at the moment. Alfie was working on a new wood carving project a little ways away.

Dean walked over to Alfie. “What's that?” he asked.

“It's a walking stick – just a stick I found down by La Cascade, really,” replied Alfie. “I'm La Cascade Manager this week, and it's a lot of walking.”

Dean leaned over to take a peek at what Alfie was carving. He'd removed the bark from a long, oval-shaped section and vertically penciled in the word “Chrystus” in all capital letters.

“This one is Polish,” explained Alfie. “I'm carving 'Christ' in a bunch of different languages.” He shrugged. “It seemed like as good an idea as any.”

“…so backwards and arrogant, it makes me sick,” Zachariah's voice broke through. “And most of the stereotypes about Germany? Like Oktoberfest and lederhosen and dirndls? They're just Bavarian. Why do Bavarians get to represent the entire country, when they're barely even German in the first place?”

“Oh, the laundry is free, I must go!” exclaimed Prakash, jumping off the wall and wriggling past Zachariah. Zachariah looked surprised, then upset, at having lost the audience for his rant against Bavarians.

Dean glanced back and, sure enough, here came Castiel with a basket full of wet laundry to hang on the clotheslines. Dean waved, but Cas appeared too lost in thought to notice. He had a serious look on his face, brow furrowed, as he made his way past the dining area and through the doorway down into the garden. Dean frowned. Then a bit of sunlight glinting off Alfie's pocket knife turned his attention back to the walking stick.

“So, uh, what other languages do you have on there?” he asked.

“Well, this one's Swedish,” said Alfie, turning the stick so Dean could see where it read “Kristus.” “And here's Portuguese,” he continued, pointing to “Cristo.” “Toshi wrote it down for me in Japanese, so I'll add that next. And Fintan said it's 'Críost' in Irish.”

“Pretty cool,” said Dean. “But what's with the alpha and omega over there?” He pointed to the Greek letters, carved larger than any of the others.

“Oh, I did that first as a sort of centerpiece. I just really like that symbolism,” explained Alfie.

“Hey, maybe if you finish carving this before the special anniversary week, maybe the Pope can bless it for you!” said Dean. Alfie chuckled.

“The Pope is not coming,” said Zachariah, with a heavy air of exasperation.

Dean looked at Zachariah and blinked. “Really? Ya think?”

“Yes, I don't know why people keep saying…” But Dean didn't hear the rest of whatever Zachariah was yammering about. Over the stone wall, he saw Castiel come into view. He had his head down and his hands in his pockets, like something was laying heavy on his mind. He went over to the stone bench in the middle of the garden and sat down, looking out at the hills and fields that lay beyond. Before he really thought about what he was doing, Dean turned and went toward the door to the garden.

As he approached, he saw that Cas was holding his blue bracelet in his hand, which was closer in length to a necklace now that it was unwrapped from his wrist. It also had a knotted cross hanging from it, which Dean hadn't seen before. Cas's gaze was fixed ahead, and it took a moment for Dean to figure out what he was looking at. There was a plant with small purple flowers and two bees buzzing around them. Other than the wings, which shone iridescent with shifting greens and blues, they were completely black. Dean had never seen bees like this before.

Dean stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure what exactly he'd come down here to do. He noticed that the bracelet was motionless in Cas's hand, though. So figuring that he wasn't interrupting anything, and that he should probably say something, he cleared his throat and spoke. “So, uh, that bracelet’s some sort of rosary, then?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Cas's head shot up and he looked over at Dean, startled. Apparently he'd been so lost in his own world that he hadn't even noticed Dean's presence until now. “Um, yes,” he said, “is like rosary. We say 'chotki.' You would say, I think, 'rosary' or 'prayer rope.'”

Dean still felt awkward, just standing there, so he tried to casually walk over to the bench and took a seat next to Castiel. “'S nice,” he said, still not sure where he was going with this.

Cas wrapped the prayer rope back around his wrist. “It is tradition to say with it Iisusova molitva – uh, 'Jesus Prayer.'” He rattled the prayer off in Russian, then thought for a moment before translating. “'Gospodi Iisuse Khriste, Syne Bozhiy, pomilui menya greshnevo.' Um… 'Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.' But I say St. Chuck's prayers instead.”

“Oh?” Dean was more than happy to let Cas take control of this conversation.

“Yes usually, um, 'Bless the Lord' and 'El Senyor és la meva força,' except of course in Russian. But today, I say German prayers, 'Behüte mich, Gott' and 'Aber du weißt den Weg für mich.' This seems more… appropriate.”

“Mm?” said Dean. He didn't want to pry into something so personal, but then again, Cas wouldn't have brought it up if he didn't want to talk about it, right?

“'You show me path of life,' 'You know way for me,'” Cas quoted. He bowed his head for a moment, before lifting it again and looking over at Dean. “Can I tell you something, if you promise not to tell another soul?”

“Okay,” said Dean.

Cas took a moment to steel his courage before continuing. “I have questions. I have doubts. I do not know what is right and what is wrong anymore. What if I make wrong choice? How I am supposed to know?”

Dean didn't know if this fell into the realm of theology or psychology or what, but whatever it was, it wasn't even remotely within his zone of competence. Still, the look of near anguish on Cas's face demanded some kind of response. “Well, you have free will, right? So… whatever choice you make, it's, well, yours to make.” There, that sounded vaguely wise.

Cas shook his head. “Sometimes, I think freedom is length of rope, and God will just sit back and watch as I hang myself with it.” He looked off into the distance. “So often, I feel nothing of God's presence. I have asked him, am I doing right thing? Am I on right path? He has to tell me, he has to give me sign! Because if he doesn't… I don't know what I will do.”

Dean didn't have any clue what to say this time. Cas was clearly dealing with some heavy shit, and Dean had only a wild guess at what this was about.

Cas took a deep breath and looked over at Dean again. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “Do you think… do you really think it is not sin?”

Aha. Dean was right, after all. That was what this was all about.

The pleading look on Cas's face vied with Dean's fear of saying the wrong thing. “I, uh, I don't know as much as Alfie does about this stuff,” he said. “But hell, he made a pretty convincing case, if you ask me.” Truth be told, he'd never really thought about sex in those terms. Worth the risk of getting caught? Sure. Sinful? Not even on his radar.

Cas looked intently at the bees again, clearly thinking. “My older brother, Gabriel. I think he is, too.”

“Oh yeah?” said Dean.

“Yes. Some years ago, he moves to Moscow and nearly disappears. Very rare phone calls. No visits, not even for Christmas. Moscow is not close by to St. Petersburg, but not so far, either.”

“He'd do that?” said Dean. “Just leave, without telling anybody why? Not even his own family?”

“I hear is different in America,” said Cas, “but in Russia it is not so safe. Is better not to tell so many people.”

“What makes you so sure he's, you know, though?”

“Well, exactly when he moves, his best friend Luka moves too. And before that, I notice when Gabriel spends much time with Luka, he has no more girlfriends. He disappears because he does not want to disappoint or bring shame to family, I think.”

Dean mulled over what Cas was telling him. He understood all too well what it was like to more or less lose a brother. At least he knew what Sam was up to these days, though. And there it was again, that familiar pang of guilt over never visiting. “Why don't you just show up for a visit sometime? Surprise him?” Dean asked.

“I do not know his address,” said Cas. “My parents ask when he calls, but always he says 'I will move soon,' or 'I will send postcard,' but postcard never arrives. Surprise visit is exactly what he does not want.” Cas sighed. “He is my brother. I love him. I hope he is happy.” He paused. “But I hope, maybe, that he is happy with somebody else. I never liked Luka.”

Dean chuckled. “Fair enough!”

Cas went quiet for a moment. “Have you ever… You know, with another…” he trailed off, but Dean was pretty sure he knew where he was going.

“Oh yeah, plenty of times,” Dean replied. “Plenty of guys,” he added.

“I have never…” Cas trailed off again.

Dean shrugged. “It's no big deal. Wait, I mean, yes it's kind of a big deal. But there are more guys than you'd think who are in their mid-twenties before they go all the way. You're not really falling behind.”

Cas shook his head. “Not 'all the way.' Not anything.”

Dean looked over at Cas, surprised. “What, not even a kiss? Or something?”

Cas flushed and looked down at his hands. “Nothing,” he said.

“That's, uh, that's cool. I mean, it's fine, you've got plenty of time,” said Dean, trying to sound encouraging.

“Not if I become priest,” Cas said, pensively.

“Right, the whole celibacy thing,” said Dean.

“In the Orthodox Church, we have married priests, too,” said Cas. “But they must become married before they are ordained. Once man is ordained, he cannot get married. And only unmarried priest can become bishop.”

“And you don't think you'll get married?”

“I do not know my vocation yet,” said Cas, ruefully. “But I know it is not to marry woman.”

“Well, I know for a fact the women were not consulted about that,” Dean said with a wink. Cas looked up at him and, to Dean's delight, gave him a small smile.

“How old were you when you knew you were…?” Cas asked.

“What? No, I'm not… I mean yeah, I like to have some fun now and then, but I'm totally straight.”

Cas's shoulders drooped. “Oh. I am sorry, I thought…”

“Hey man, I have no problem with it! Hell, I think it's great – you do you! I'm just, you know, not.”

Cas looked off into the distance again and gently brushed his fingers over the prayer rope on his wrist. “I have always known – that I am made wrong, that I have crack in my chassis. And just as long, I have known it is sin to do anything. But now, I do not know anymore.”

“I think, uh, you've gotta follow your heart,” said Dean, hoping that sounded more thoughtful and less cliché than it really was. Based on Cas's solemn nod, apparently it did.

They sat in silence for several moments, Cas looking deep in thought.

Dean checked his watch. “Hey, we still have a little bit of free time before we have to go make the tea,” he said. “Whaddaya say we go see if Prakash is done with his laundry and up for a game of pétanque?” He clapped Cas on the shoulder.

“Sure, why not?” said Cas, and they both rose.

By the time Dean and Cas had been thoroughly whipped by Prakash and Kevin, they needed to head back up to the big kitchen to prepare tea. Dean still had the bags of herbs in his pocket from breakfast, so he didn't need to come up with an excuse to get them from his room, but he would need some pretext to get rid of Cas for a few minutes while he distributed them into the pots.

They'd set out most of the pots when Dean acted like he'd suddenly had an idea. “Hey, how about you go see what snack options there are for today, while I finish this up?” Cas shrugged, and made his way into the back storage room. Dean quickly put down the last pot and grabbed a bunch of big stirring spoons from the utensil rack. He had to work quickly, but carefully, to get this done before Cas came back. He reached down into the first pot and carefully dumped the herbs from one little bag into a neat pile on the bottom, right by the edge. Then he positioned the stirring spoon just so, in order to hide the herbs underneath it. Perfect. He repeated the process with each pot, then went to the cabinet to get the first few bags of iced tea powder. He was in the middle of pouring the second bag when Meg and Isaac arrived, followed soon after by the first of the visitors on Breakfast & Tea.

“Are you so bored that you have nothing to do besides show up early?” asked Meg.

“Nah,” said Dean. “I'm just trying to make you look bad.” He flashed his most charming smile.

Cas came back into the room with a crate full of cellophane-wrapped loaves. “We have tea biscuits or honey cake,” he said. “I choose honey cake.”

“Excellent choice,” said Dean, as more visitors arrived and Meg and Isaac started handing out bags of iced tea powder to pour into each pot. “You three,” Dean said, pointing at a group of visitors who had just finished donning their aprons and hats. “Yan, Irina, and Femke,” he read the names they'd written on their hats in marker at the start of their first shift. “Help Castiel carry out the honey cake.” The three teens followed Cas back into the storage room, and Dean went back to “supervising” the tea making process – really, checking to make sure there was a sufficient layer of powder in each pot before anyone thought to move the stirring spoons.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief once all the tea had been mixed and carried out to be served. He'd have to keep a close eye on the process for the rest of the week, just to play it safe, but the plan seemed to be working. Time would tell if it actually kept the night hag away, but Dean had a good feeling.

Dean strode up to the church when the bells for evening prayers could be heard ringing in the distance. Time to put in his more-or-less daily appearance at the church. Cas was already there, sitting in the auxiliaire's area, when Dean arrived. His eyes were closed, and he was fiddling with the prayer rope on his wrist, though he didn't appear to be actually counting prayers with it. Still, Dean decided not to disturb him as he took a seat next to him. Soon enough, the church was full of people, the bells finished ringing, and the music began.

“Gott, lass meine Gedanken sich sammeln zu dir. Bei dir ist das Licht, du vergisst mich nicht. Bei dir is die Hilfe, bei dir ist die Geduld. Ich verstehe deine Wege nicht, aber du weißt den Weg für mich.” Dean felt a tinge of déjà vu, as if he'd heard this song recently, even though this was the first time he'd been to prayers all week.

After a few opening songs, a brother went up to the podium and read from the Bible in French. Then there was a round of sung Alleluias, followed by another brother reading the same passage in English. “A reading from the First Epistle of John. 'Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.'”

Following the abbreviated readings in a half dozen different readings, there was another song. “Jésus le Christ, lumière intérieure, ne laisse pas mes ténèbres me parler. Jésus le Christ, lumière intérieure, donnemoi d'accueillir ton amour.”

After the familiar silence in the middle of the service, Dean expected the standard refrain of “Kyrie eleison” but this time it went “Gospodi pomilui” instead, the transliteration printed above the original Cyrillic text. The translation, however, was the same “Lord, have compassion” as always. Amidst the intercessions in various languages, the one in English was, “For those who feel loneliness, that they may find companionship, Lord we pray.” Followed once again by “Gospodi pomilui.”

“Behüte mich, Gott, ich vertraue dir, du zeigst mir den Weg zum Leben. Bei dir ist Freude, Freude in Füllem,” went the next song. Dean's feeling of déjà vu returned. He shook it off.

Next came a spoken prayer, read (as always) in more than a half dozen different languages. “God of consolation, even when we feel nothing of your presence, still, you are there. Your presence is invisible but your Holy Spirit is always within us.” A couple more songs and then, finally, the closing song of the evening during which the brothers stood up and left the church. “Wysławiajcie Pana, O. Wysławiajcie Pana, O. Śpiewaj Panu cała ziemio. Alleluja, alleluja,” went the Polish lyrics.

Most of the auxiliaires, and a good portion of the visitors, got up to leave shortly after the brothers did, but Castiel made no sign of movement. Dean glanced over at him, and followed his gaze to the front of the church, where stood the iron cross with the hearts at the ends of its beams. His eyes shone bright, and a soft smile played on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Oh, Dean, Dean, Dean! “Straight”? Just keep telling yourself that, dear! (Don't worry, he'll come around!)
>   * Oh, and Luka is supposed to be Lucifer, in case that was unclear. That's why Cas never liked him!
>   * The prayer rope is usually used to count repetitions of a single prayer. (Traditionally the Jesus Prayer, as Cas explained.) But since he's into in ecumenism, Cas uses his as a sort of hybrid between a prayer rope and a rosary, reciting one prayer on the knots and a different one on the beads that demarcate each group of ten knots. (He also starts with the Nicene Creed, similar to how Catholics reciting the rosary start with the Apostle's Creed, but that didn't come up in this chapter.)
>   * Did you catch all the “signs” Cas received at evening prayers, after telling Dean how he'd prayed for one? Cause he sure did!
>     * “Aber du weißt den Weg für mich” and “Behüte mich, Gott” are the same prayers Cas was praying in the garden today (which is why Dean got déjà vu from hearing them – Cas had just mentioned them to him)
>     * The reading from 1 John 4:7-8, 11-12 speaks for itself, haha
>     * “Jésus le Christ” tells him don't let your darkness speak to you, let your heart welcome love
>     * The Kyrie is in Russian this time, to confirm that yes this sign is meant for him
>     * The intercessory prayer is pretty self-explanatory
>     * Cas said that “so often, I feel nothing of God's presence.” The spoken prayer responded, “even when we feel nothing of your presence, still, you are there.”
>     * The closing song was literally a Polish prayer X-D
> 



	27. Week Four, Wednesday

As Dean was drinking his bowl of coffee before heading out way too early to help Charlie with the bread delivery, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He frowned. It wasn't ominous or anything. Probably just someone taking a trip to the bathroom before going back to bed for another hour. But then a familiar face appeared in the doorway.

“Mornin', Cas,” said Dean. “What're you doing up so early?”

“You always go early to help red-haired girl carry bread, yes?” he said. “She needs more help?”

Dean shrugged, still not fully awake. “Sure, if you wanna come,” he said.

“So… red-haired girl,” said Cas. “She is your girlfriend?” He was trying just a little bit too hard to sound casual.

Dean sputtered into his coffee. “Charlie? No, no, definitely not,” he said. “She, uh, doesn't play for that team.” He glanced over at Cas, who had an oddly relieved look on his face. “Dunno if I should have told you that, actually,” Dean said. “Don't tell anyone else, 'k?” Cas shook his head earnestly. Dean gulped down the last of his coffee. “C'mon, if you're coming,” he said.

The Pain Céleste truck was there when they arrived, but Charlie wasn't. That worried Dean, but he didn't really know what to do about it. He couldn't exactly barge into Maison du Baptême to make sure she was okay. Besides, he told himself, she probably just overslept a little. They should just get started anyway. He went to open the bread barrack door, but hit a snag. It was locked. Well, so much for that idea. He sat down on the ground and leaned back against the outside of the kitchen wall. He must have dozed off for a few minutes, because the next thing he was aware of was a hand on his shoulder and Cas's voice saying “Wake up, here she comes.” Dean blinked a few times, looked where Cas was pointing, and saw Charlie jogging toward them from the direction of the church.

“Sorry, sorry,” she started apologizing as soon as she was within earshot. As she got closer, Dean could see that her hair was pulled back into an especially messy ponytail, and she had bags under her eyes.

“Geez, Charlie. No offense, but you look like hammered crap,” said Dean as he dragged himself up off the ground.

“I had an awful night – not as awful as Hannah's, though! – and slept right through my alarm clock. I'm so sorry!” Charlie rushed over to the bread barrack, pulled a key out of her pocket, and missed the lock a couple times before managing to unlock the door with trembling hands.

Charlie whipped around and was rushing toward the Pain Céleste truck when she ran right into Dean's chest. Dean stepped back, took her gently by the shoulders, and crouched just a bit so they would be face-to-face. Charlie looked like she was about to cry. “Hey, hey, breathe. There's still plenty of time before breakfast. And look, we even have extra help today.” He gestured for Cas to come closer. When he did, Dean looped his arm around him and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “This is Castiel – Cas – my across-the-hall neighbor. Between the three of us, plus the truck driver, we'll have the bread unloaded in no time. There's nothing to worry about.” Charlie threw her arms around Dean, and squeezed tight. She was surprisingly strong. “Ok, thanks, yeah, having trouble breathing,” said Dean. Charlie released him as quickly as she'd embraced him. She nodded, then made her way more slowly and deliberately toward the bread truck. Dean let go of Cas, and the two of them followed suit.

After they'd each carried over a couple baskets, Dean decided to risk bringing up the subject of Charlie's awful night again. He didn't want to upset her, but an “awful night” around here might be connected to the case he was working. “So, uh, who's Hannah? And is she okay?” he asked as they returned to the truck for more baskets.

“Hannah is my roommate,” explained Charlie. “Last night, something woke me up in the middle of the night, and I heard her gasping for breath. It was horrible! I thought she was dying!” It was clear that recounting the story was difficult for her, but she retained her composure. “I turned the lights on, and she sat right up in bed and just started crying. She was shaking and hyperventilating. It was more than twenty minutes before she could even speak! I tried to get her to let me take her to the infirmary, because I didn't know what else to do. But the most she'd let me do was bring her downstairs for some tea. She finally calmed down enough to tell me that she'd had a horrible nightmare, but she wouldn't give any details. All she said was that there 'was nothing she could do to stop it,' but then she started crying again so I didn't push her to say more. I stayed up with her until she was ready to try to sleep again, and even then I was too worried to fall asleep for a long time. She was so exhausted from everything that she fell asleep again before I did. But I don't think either one of us got more than four hours of actual sleep, tops.”

Dean felt a knot form in his stomach as Charlie related the events. Yup, this sure sounded like the night hag. Shit. Clea's herbs were apparently protecting the field people, but auxiliaires take their tea in their houses. And use actual tea bags, not just powder. He had no way to protect them. Dean pulled Charlie in and kissed the top of her head. “You're a good friend,” he said. “Hannah's lucky she had you.”

Dean sat at the back of the food pavilion, eating with the rest of the Breakfast & Tea crew. They'd finally finished serving up everyone else's food, and could enjoy their own breakfasts. Dean sipped his cocoa, glad he'd gotten up early enough to have coffee before coming to work. As they were finishing up, the sound of water flowing and plastic bowls clinking against each other came from around the corner. The Breakfast & Tea Washing-Up team was getting started on their duties.

When Dean finished his cocoa and his bread with jam, he turned to Cas and said “I have some quick business at Māja to take care of.” He slid his tray under the tray on Cas's lap, and placed his empty cocoa bowl on top. “Aw, you'll bring my stuff up for me? Thanks, you're the sweetest!” Cas gave him a squinty look. Dean flashed him a wide grin and ruffled his hair as he stood up.

Dean was early to Māja, as it turned out. He had to wait a few minutes before an auxiliaire girl showed up with a key to unlock the door and grant him access. Once inside, he grabbed a piece of scrap paper and a pencil, and thought for a moment on the best way to word this. “Another one yesterday. Meeting? –Dean” That seemed vague enough that any nosey interlopers would be left drawing a blank, but Bobby would have no trouble deciphering what it meant. He folded the note and started to write “Bobby” on the outside, but caught himself in time to turn it into “Brother Robert.” Dean handed the note to the girl at the podium, and headed back outside.

In the few minutes Dean had been away, the yard had cleared out a surprising amount. There were a few stragglers still finishing their breakfasts, but most of the visitors had already returned their dishes and headed off to their various jobs or Bible studies. He did a quick sweep of the area to see if anyone had left their trays and bowls out. Officially, that was the washing-up team's job, but in practice, the Breakfast & Tea crew helped them out.

When he got to the covered patio, there were a few people sitting about at the far end, but they weren't lingering from breakfast. Each one had a collection of buckets, brooms, and other cleaning supplies resting on or against a bench near them. Must be getting ready to go clean the toilets.

A pair of young women were sitting on a bench near the side wall bulletin board, facing away from Dean, but he recognized Charlie from the hair and the blocky, multi-colored flannel shirt. She was resting her head on the shoulder of the other woman, who had an arm slung across Charlie's back. The other woman had brown hair worn in a messy bun gathered low under her right ear, and a light brown leather jacket. Dean guessed that the flannel shirt and leather jacket would be coming off soon, as the morning chill was rapidly giving way to midday heat.

Not sure if he should interrupt, Dean indecisively moseyed on over to the bulletin board. It sure looked like a whole new batch of notes since the last time he'd taken a close look, way back in his first week. At least, the few specific notes he remembered were gone. Which made sense, since most people were gone after one week anyway. He hoped that what's-her-face had found a ride to wherever it was, and what's-his-name had found his missing hat. The board was covered in the same type of notes, though, looking for rides come Sunday and missing items, and the occasional unnecessary but cute affirmation.

“Hey Dean,” came Charlie's voice. Busted. But now, at least, he had an invitation instead of being the one to intrude.

“Oh, hey Charlie. I didn't see you there,” said Dean.

“You are such a liar,” Charlie replied with a smile. Dean gave a sheepish grin.

“They have you working again already?” he asked, nodding at the cleaning supplies next to her.

“No, thankfully. My only morning job is to receive the bread delivery. I'm just keeping Dorothy company until she's assigned a group of teenagers to order around. By the way, Dean, this is Dorothy. She's from Finland. Dorothy, this is the American boy I mentioned, Dean.”

Dean waved. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Dorothy with a nod.

“So, ah, are you two in the same house?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, Maison du Baptême. I am no Vierge!” said Dorothy. Charlie gave her a playful swat. “What? I'm just telling the truth!” Dorothy replied. “I've been in Baptême all three times I've been an auxiliaire!”

“Good morning, Site Seven!” a voice suddenly rung out from just around the corner.

“Ah, here we go,” said Dorothy, shifting a little in her seat but keeping an arm around Charlie.

“Welcome to another day of cleaning!” came the same voice. Inexplicably, the crowd which had grown outside Site Seven cheered. “Let us start today with a song!” called out the leader.

There was a brief shuffling of cardboard, and then, “One, two, three! When I wake up in the morning and I don't know how the day will be, one thing comes to my mind, let me clean! When I run to Site Seven for a yellow sponge, and blue, and pink, 'Give me a broom,' I say, let me clean!” Dean felt mildly sick by the time they got to the chorus. “Let me clean, let me clean, let me clean, let me clean, toilets, sinks, and everything, let me clean!” To his horror, there was a second verse. He had never witnessed such an act of violence against a classic Beatles song. Dean went and peeked around the corner to see how everyone knew the ungodly lyrics, and saw that at the front of the crowd, someone was holding up a giant cardboard sign with some of the lyrics written in mockingly cheerful colors. When they got to the second (and blessedly, final) chorus, the sign-holder turned the cardboard around to show more lyrics.

Finally, the song was over, and the crowd cheered for the carnage they'd wrought. Dean shuddered. Truly, there was a dark evil at work here. He'd have to ask Bobby where he could get enough holy water to drench every part of Site Seven.

“Okay, listen closely!” called out the leader's voice again. “The group of Neela, you are with Benjamine today!” There was a slight shuffling of the crowd as the first group of teens made their way to the auxiliaire they'd be working under.

“The group of Ilona! You are with Bela!” A brief pause for them to move, then “The group of Ernesto! You are with Dorothy! Where are you, Dorothy?”

Dorothy gave Charlie a quick squeeze, then got up to move to where she'd be more visible and waved her arms in the air. A group of teenagers, with an adult leader (presumably Ernesto), pushed their way through the crowd toward her.

The leader kept calling out names of group leaders and names of auxiliaires, as Dorothy picked up items from her collection of brooms and toilet brushes and other assorted cleaning tools, and handed them out to her squad.

“I should get back to Baptême and check on Hannah,” Charlie said to Dean. “She's housekeeper this week, and she's probably all alone right now. I had to leave before she woke up, so I don't know how she's doing this morning.”

“Go take care of your friend,” Dean replied. “I'll see you soon.”

“Can you get the music, Dean?” asked Brother Gerhard. He obediently got up from the table and hit the “stop” button on the CD player. The noise level quickly grew.

“Sausages for lunch today,” Zachariah announced loudly as Dean returned to his seat. “Franz must be very happy.”

Dean and several other guys glanced over to Franz to see if he was going to react. He calmly swallowed a forkful of couscous and said, “You know what? Yeah, I do like sausages. Everyone likes sausages. They're delicious!”

“Not me,” said Mathieu. “I'm vegetarian.” He took a bite of the extra cheese which was today's meat-substitute. Adam asked Mathieu about his favorite cheeses, and from there the conversation spiraled into favorite cheeses and meats and which paired well together.

Dean, lacking a palate more sophisticated than “cheese plus burger equals heaven,” turned his attention to his remaining sausage and a half. He speared the whole one near its end, turned to Cas, and held it up. “Hey Cas, en garde!”

Cas looked at Dean's sausage, then at Dean, then back at his sausage. Then he slowly speared one of his own and crossed “swords” with Dean. Dean made the first move, striking sharply in the middle of Cas's “blade.” Cas parried, then made a riposte. Dean leaned out of the way, then engaged again and attempted another attack. Cas counter-attacked, stopping just short of leaving a grease-stain on Dean's shirt.

“Point to me!” Cas declared. Dean took advantage of Cas's momentary distraction to thrust toward him, at which point his sausage broke where the fork penetrated it and both sides fell into Cas's couscous.

“I think that means I win,” said Cas. Dean frowned at his empty fork and then, without warning, leaned down and took a big bite from Cas's still outstretched sausage. He grinned at Cas as he chewed. Cas chuckled and shook his head, transferred the rest of his sausage to Dean's plate, then started in on Dean's sausage which had fallen onto his. Dean noticed Brother Gerhard giving them what was probably meant to be a stern look, but was entirely ruined by the amusement in his eyes.

After lunch was over and everyone was starting to clean up, Brother Gerhard motioned Dean over. Dean gulped, and steeled himself to be reprimanded for the sausage shenanigans. But instead, Brother Gerhard simply said “Brother Robert sends a message for you,” and handed him a folded piece of paper with his name on it. Dean flipped it open. Bobby wanted to meet tomorrow morning, 10am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * [“Let Me Clean” song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DChZmjtTcGY)
> 



	28. Week Four, Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Music:
>     * [Slavite, vsi narody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZvYtlwv8Lg) (Ukrainian version of Laudate Omnes Gentes (Latin)) on accordion
>       * Translation: “Sing praises, all you peoples. Sing praises to the Lord.”
>     * [Somebody to Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmh8jq135kE&t=18s) by Queen on accordion
> 


Dean and Cas were up bright and early again, helping Charlie and the Pain Céleste woman with the bread delivery. It went much quicker with the four of them, leaving plenty of time to sit and relax while waiting for the rest of the Breakfast & Tea crew to arrive.

“So you look a lot better this morning,” Dean said. “How's Hannah doing?”

“Who is Hannah?” asked Cas. He apparently hadn't overheard their conversation the previous morning. They briefly filled him in, though Dean obviously left out the part where it was actually a monster attack.

“She was pretty shook up all day yesterday,” said Charlie. “But I think a good night's sleep last night will have done her a lot of good. She has a strange bruise on her chest, though. Must have been thrashing in her sleep I guess. That will take a little while to heal.”

Dean nodded. So the attacks were indeed escalating, like Bobby had been afraid of. It was a good thing Charlie had mentioned that, since he couldn't exactly go prying for that kind of detail without raising a lot of eyebrows.

Cas stood up and said that he had to go visit the toilets. Hearing “toilet” instead of “bathroom” or “restroom” still sounded odd to Dean, but that was normal here.

“So, what's the story with that Dorothy chick?” Dean asked Charlie, bumping shoulders with her.

Charlie's ear tips went pink. “She's… a friend,” she said, confirming Dean's suspicion that she was definitely more than a friend. “What about, uh, Castiel?” she added, clearly trying to change the subject. “He seems helpful. And dreamy.”

Now it was Dean's turn to hedge. “He's, uh, a friend?”

Charlie gave Dean an amused look. “You know I believe that about as much as you believe that about me and Dorothy.”

“What is it with you, anyway?” asked Dean. “Do all the not-straight people at St. Chuck's somehow gravitate toward you?”

“Sometimes I wonder that,” said Charlie. “So you're ready to admit that you're 'not-straight,' then?”

“No!” exclaimed Dean. “I mean, no! Maybe! Don't pressure me!”

“Okay, okay, no pressure,” said Charlie, putting her hands up in front of her. “I'm just gonna say, though,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “that if you want some of that, you should go get it.”

“…so instead of the First Epistle of John 4:18, 'There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear,' he accidentally reads from the Gospel According to St. John 4:18, 'For you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband'!” Bobby threw his head back in laughter. Dean chuckled politely. It was kind of funny, he guessed. “Oh man, some of the brothers were laughing so hard they had to leave the church for a few minutes to get themselves back together. Even the priest had a couple of false starts before he could do the actual gospel reading for the day!”

“Hey, how come you never became a priest?” asked Dean, a book of lore lying semi-forgotten on his lap. “Seems like it would have been useful, as a hunter. You could have, I dunno, blessed all your weapons, and had an easy line on any holy relics you needed.”

“A religious vocation is a sacred calling, boy! Not a career move! Besides, there are no 'priests' in the Lutheran church.” He paused. “Or, technically, there are millions of 'em. 'Priesthood of all believers' and whatnot. But the ordained clergy are called 'pastors.' To tell the truth, I've never once in my life felt any sort of call to become a pastor. There are plenty of folks better suited to that job than I am, and I'm perfectly happy to leave 'em to it.”

“I thought you said it's a calling, not a job,” Dean teased.

“Don't make me come over there,” threatened Bobby.

“Is that very, er, monkish behavior?”

“What, you've never heard of nuns in Catholic schools whacking kids across the knuckles with a ruler? I reckon I could get away with a smack or two!” Bobby broke out into a grin. “If you didn't tell Brother Marcel, that is. I think he'd take your side on this one. Now, we'd best get back to work.” He dropped the book he'd been looking through onto the floor, and picked another one from the desk.

Dean sighed, found where he'd left off on the page, and picked up from there.

“Anything?” asked Bobby, after a while.

“Bupkis,” answered Dean.

“I wish I could say I was surprised.” Bobby sighed. “It's just more of the same kind of stuff we found last time. Hang an iron horseshoe from the bedpost, say the Germans. Sleep on your right side, say the Arabs.”

“Don't forget, uh, leaving a knife in the cradle. Cause that sounds perfectly safe! You can interrupt an attack by wiggling your left toe, which sounds completely practical. Or leave a broomstick under your pillow.”

“Or leave it upside-down, behind the door,” Bobby interjected. “So we're getting absolutely nowhere.”

“Well, we could try hiding old pieces of metal inside all the auxiliaires' mattresses. I'm guessing that's the modern-day equivalent of 'the straw where you sleep,' anyway. We'd just need inside help for the other three houses, or a really good excuse for why a dude was poking around in all the girls' rooms.”

“I'll put those on the list of options which are technically doable, but realistically next to impossible,” said Bobby. “At least the herbs in the tea seem to be working. So keep doing that for now. I hate to say it, but better an auxiliaire than a field person.”

Dean nodded grimly. “Did I mention that the attack left bruising this time? The night hag must be pissed that we took away most of its buffet.”

“No, you forgot that little detail,” said Bobby. “Great, just what I was afraid of. It's escalating, only it seems like it's actually our fault.” He sighed. “All the more reason to hope and pray for a break in this case, and soon.”

After lunch, Dean was once again on washing-up duty. He was outside washing the plates and serving bowls, while Cas was at the inside sink washing the utensils and drinking bowls. He finished up on his side, then went into the common room to help Cas. Cas was lagging behind, since it was also his job to stack everything on the drying racks.

Kevin was sitting at the table with his guitar, playing some god-awful Christian pop song. It reminded Dean of the disappointing results he got from radio station-surfing in the Bible Belt. “You alone are my heart's desire,” Kevin sang, “and I long to worship you!”

“Hey, do you know any St. Chuck's songs?” asked Dean. Anything was better than the noise he was currently producing.

“Of course,” said Kevin, with mild indignation. He flipped through one of the St. Chuck's music books on the table, and started plucking out the melody to one of them. “Hey Castiel, get your accordion,” he suddenly said.

Cas stood still for a moment. “Go ahead,” said Dean. “I'll take care of these bowls.” Cas shrugged and headed upstairs. Dean carefully added the last few bowls to the giant pyramid on the counter. Kevin kept plucking out the melody to a St. Chuck's song that Dean recognized, but couldn't put a name to.

Cas returned after a couple of minutes. He settled on the bench near Kevin so they could both see the music book. Cas took over the melody line, while Kevin switched over to strumming out accompaniment chords. Dean wasn't sure what to expect from a guitar and accordion together, but somehow it worked. Dean started humming along, still drawing a blank on the words. It didn't help any when Vitalik came down the stairs and started singing along with words Dean was certain he'd never heard before.

“Slavite, vsi narody, slavite Hospoda. Slavite, vsi narody, slavite Hospoda.” It also didn't help when Raphael came down and started singing along, too, with the same foreign lyrics. Dean felt a little bit like the odd one out, since he was just standing there while everyone else played or sang along. But he savored the opportunity to admire Cas's nimble fingers and well-toned arms. It was a slow, leisurely song, so Cas's movements were unhurried but precise.

Dean's thoughts again went to an indecent place as he wondered what it would feel like to be pinned down by those muscled arms. Calm yourself, he thought. This guy's a total virgin, remember? Can't expect him to be a wild stallion right out of the gate. Can't expect him to want to go for a ride with you at all, a little corner of his mind reminded him. Killjoy.

Right around the time Dean was thinking it might be a good idea to sit down for a while, the song ended. Kevin and Cas, as if by some silent agreement, slowed down to signal the last repetition, finishing with some genre-defying wild strumming on Kevin's part, and bellows-shaking on Cas's. The two of them laughed when they were done, and Vitalik and even the normally serious Raphael smiled.

“So, uh,” Dean started, not sure if he should reveal his ignorance, “I recognized the music but not the lyrics.”

“It is Ukrainian,” explained Vitalik. “You know in Latin as 'Laudate omnes gentes, laudate Dominum.'” Dean tried singing the Latin under his breath, and it did indeed feel more familiar. He'd definitely heard it a few of the times he'd gone to prayers.

Vitalik checked his watch. “I have to go for work. See you all at supper!”

“I must go too,” added Raphael. The two of them waved, and Dean, Cas, and Kevin waved back.

“Actually, I have to leave too,” said Kevin, getting up and putting his guitar back in the corner.

“Work?” asked Dean.

Kevin nodded. “There’s a meeting in Hong Kong next year, the first one outside of Europe! I’m helping Brother Martin translate songs into Cantonese. He’s lucky I’m from there! Most Chinese people don’t speak Cantonese, only Mandarin.”

“What would he do if you hadn't come here, then?” asked Dean.

Kevin shrugged. “Wait until they go there, months before the meeting. Work with people from local churches. But I’m here, so he’s getting a head start.”

Kevin headed toward the door. There was another round of waves, and then Dean and Cas were the last two left in the common room. Cas started to fasten the bellows strap, in order to put his accordion away.

“Wait,” said Dean. “You just brought that down. Play something else.”

“What I should play for you?” asked Cas, undoing the strap again.

“Mm… Do you know any classic rock, besides Bohemian Rhapsody? Like, any Led Zeppelin or AC/DC?” He figured it was a long shot, but he had to ask.

Cas thought for a moment. “No, I do not think I know those. Sorry.” He thought a little more. “Ah! I know what I will play!”

Dean sat down on the bench, near Cas but still far enough away that he could watch him without craning his neck. He rested his chin on his hand and settled in to listen to Cas play. Cas put his glasses on the table, placed his fingers on the buttons, sat up straighter, and began to play. Dean's soft smile slowly faded into a frown as he recognized what Cas was playing. His eyes narrowed with dismay. It was “My Heart Will Go On” from Titanic.

It wasn't long before Cas's serene expression cracked into a devious grin, and then into full-throated laughter. He played one final chord from the song before it devolved into a dissonant screech.

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Cas, between bursts of laughter. “I could not resist, to see your face!” He was as doubled over as he could get with the bulky instrument on his lap.

“You son of a…” Dean chuckled. He smacked Cas lightly upside the head. More of a gentle push, really. Cas's hair felt soft beneath his fingers. He quickly took his hand back, before he made things weird. “Why do you even know that song?” he asked.

Cas was getting ahold of himself now. “Years ago, for my parents' anniversary, my sister insists we play it together.”

“She plays accordion, too?” asked Dean.

“No, she plays flute,” said Cas. “No two of us play same instrument.”

“You all play something?”

“Well, just four of us,” Cas replied. “Michael and Eliah do not play instruments.”

“Damn, six kids?” Dean whistled. “And I thought one brother was a handful!”

Cas shrugged. “Is all I have known. There is Michael, the oldest, and then Gabriel – I told you about him already – he plays guitar. Then is Rachel, who plays harp, and Eliah. I am next, and last is Purah. She was Titanic fan.” He chuckled. “Anyway,” Cas continued, tapping the sides of his accordion. “I owe you song, still. I know what I will play, for real now.”

Dean settled back with his chin in his hand again as Cas positioned his fingers on the buttons, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. Dean couldn't help but trail his eyes down the line of Cas's neck, from the angle of his jaw down to the curve leading beneath his shirt collar. Dean bit his lip. Cas started playing. Within the first five notes, Dean recognized the song and couldn't help but smile. It was another Queen song, “Somebody To Love.”

Dean enjoyed the opportunity to stare all he wanted without Cas (or anyone else, for that matter) noticing. From Cas's strong thighs on the bench, supporting the accordion, to his agile fingers, up his powerful arms and shoulders flexing beneath his thin shirt, to his extremely tempting neck and lightly stubbled jawline. He trailed his gaze over to Cas's full, pale pink lips and noticed that he was subtly mouthing the lyrics as he played, silently singing along about agonizing and praying and longing for love. But far from looking like there would soon be “tears running down from his eyes,” a gentle smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked happy, hopeful even, as if the song was about the anticipation of love rather than its lamentable absence.

He noticed Cas's piercing blue eyes gazing back at him. Busted. Dean became suddenly interested in the floral pattern on the vinyl tablecloth, though he couldn't stop the tips of his ears from turning pink.

“We should have a bonfire tomorrow night,” said Franz.

“Why?” asked Adam.

Franz shrugged. “To kick off the weekend? Do we really need an excuse?”

“I think we would need a pretty good excuse,” said Alfie, “to get permission from the brothers.”

Afternoon tea had gone smoothly. Most of the guys were back from their afternoon jobs now. The common room was too stuffy in the early evening heat, so a bunch of them were hanging around the dining area outside. Cas and Victor were still sipping their own tea, teabags floating in their bowls.

“Didn't get enough while we were serving it up?” Dean ribbed Cas.

Cas shook his head while swallowing a sip. “I never drink powder tea. Is too sweet.”

“What saint's day is tomorrow?” asked Franz. “We'll claim it's a German tradition to have a bonfire on St. Whoever's day!”

“I'm pretty sure Brother Gerhard would debunk that,” teased Adam. “Besides, where would we get the wood?”

“Hell, there are plenty of trees down at La Cascade,” Dean chimed in. “I doubt one would be missed! Got an axe, Alfie?”

“That would not work, though,” said Zachariah. “You need dry wood for a fire, not a freshly cut tree.”

“Hey Zach,” said Dean. “What's the German word for 'joke'? Or does that only exist in Bavarian?”

Zachariah looked at Dean for a moment. “It's 'Witz,'” he said.

“We could roast Stockbrot and sausages over the fire for supper,” Franz continued. He glared at Zachariah on the word “sausages.”

“What's 'Stockbrot'?” asked Alfie, saying aloud what Dean had also been wondering.

“Stick bread,” said Franz. “You wrap bread dough around a stick and cook it over the fire.” He saw the blank look on Alfie's face. “You do not do this?”

“Nah, we mostly do sweet stuff, like marshmallows,” Alfie said.

“And s'mores!” added Dean.

“What is 's'mores'?” asked Castiel.

Dean gawked. “You've never had a s'more? You poor deprived boy!” He dragged Cas in and cradled his head against his shoulder, petting his hair. Cas somehow managed to put his tea down on the table before it spilled. He pushed Dean away and straightened his glasses, but was grinning and turning pink while he did it. “S'mores are half the point of setting a fire in the first place, dammit!” The other half of the point, in Dean's experience, was usually to flambé a monster or two, but he couldn't exactly say that. “Okay, so you start out toasting a marshmallow, like normal. And in the meantime, you make a little sandwich out of a graham cracker, broken in half, and half a chocolate bar. Then, when the marshmallow is perfectly golden brown, you open the sandwich up and squish the marshmallow inside it. Pull out the stick, et voilà! The heat from the marshmallow melts the chocolate and turns it into a gooey, delicious mess that gets all over your mouth when you eat it.”

“And this is good thing?” asked Cas, incredulously.

“Dude, it is the best thing!”

True, Dean never had a proper summer camp experience. But between a couple of times when a weekend at Pastor Jim's had involved him and Sammy getting dragged along on church youth group camping trips, and a camp-out one night at Sonny's to celebrate a three-day weekend, he'd had a few opportunities to have the quintessential campfire experience.

Ash came outside, carrying a stack of plates and silverware. He came over to the dining area. “Move,” he said to Adam, who was sitting on the table. “I need to set the table for supper.”

“Already?” asked Zachariah, who was standing with his arms crossed. “There's still plenty of time.”

“Easier to get it out of the way now,” said Ash, setting out plates.

“Oh shit,” said Franz, looking at his watch suddenly. “I'm going to be late for work in the big kitchen!” He took off for the gate.

“Run, Forrest!” Dean called after him.

“Or else we won't have anything to eat tonight,” added Cas.

“Unless we break into the small kitchen,” said Victor, “to steal the girls' pizza.”

“They get pizza on Fridays, not Thursdays,” corrected Adam.

“Wait, there's pizza? Why don't we ever get pizza?” asked Dean. “Okay, new plan. Forget the bonfire. Tomorrow, we go on a pizza raid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Music:
>     * [My Heart Will Go On](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnUW1nRYZyU) from Titanic on accordion (if you must :-P)
> 



	29. Week Four, Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Welcome to another chapter of “Alfie rambles a lot”! But there's a reward at the end of this chapter, I promise ^_^
>   * Books which changed Alfie's life, and he highly recommends (shhhh, just ignore that, like, all of them, weren't even published yet at the time this fic takes place ;-)):
>     * _Speaking Christian_ by Marcus Borg
>     * _Jesus for the Non-Religious_ by John Shelby Spong
>     * _The First Paul_ by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan
>     * _Misquoting Jesus_ and _Jesus, Interrupted_ by Bart Ehrman (He's an agnostic ex-Christian, fwiw. But I – I mean, uh, Alfie – was assigned to read excerpts from his work in seminary.)
>     * _The Case for God_ by Karen Armstrong (like I said in Chapter 23's notes, this is an amazing book with a terrible, misleading title. It's very dense, though, so I definitely recommend starting with some of the others. Here's a short, easier to read article by the same author: [“Metaphysical mistake: Confusion by Christians between belief and reason has created bad science and inept religion”](https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/belief/2009/jul/12/religion-christianity-belief-science))
>   * Songs:
>     * [Crucem tuam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRrYRORosgo) (Latin)
>     * [In manus tuas, Pater](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xff4PlGlBLk) (Latin)
>   * Photos:
>     * [Prayer around the cross](https://king.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83451f9ca69e20133f386756a970b-800wi)
>   * More art by TheDogsled in this chapter! Click it for full-resolution!
> 


Dean and Cas lugged the last pot of cocoa to its place under the food pavilion, completing the breakfast spread. Bread, butter, chocolate sticks, tea and cocoa, bowls and trays, everything was set out and ready to go, and the bells calling everyone to morning prayers were just starting to ring.

“You always stay outside,” Cas said to Dean.

“Yeah? And?”

“And is unfair to you. I will stay with food today. You go to prayers.”

“What? No, I wouldn't want to drag you away from–” but Cas was now literally pushing Dean in the direction of the church. “Okay, okay!” Dean said, realizing that he wasn't going to win this time. He took off his apron and paper hat and shoved them into Cas's hands. “See you in half an hour,” he called back over his shoulder.

As Dean left the food pavilion, a flash of black and white caught his eye. Looking down he saw the same kitten from last week, hiding behind one of the pillars that held up the roof. Dean was about to tell it that there was no food it could steal (as if it could understand, anyway) and shoo it away when it suddenly looked up at him, hissed, and darted away. “Well hisssss to you, too!” Dean said.

“What was that?” called Cas, looking up.

“Nothing!” Dean called back. “Never mind!”

Dean screwed the cap back on the laundry detergent bottle and headed back to the common room. He looked to see if there was anything new on the whiteboard, then plopped down onto a bench. Someone had left a pile of scrap papers on the table, so Dean took one and started folding a paper football.

“…not abusive, like in a lot of de-conversion stories, just kind of… pointless,” Alfie was saying to Mathieu. “The Jesus my parents and pastors taught me about? He was completely bland and inoffensive. His entire message was a bunch of generic platitudes that basically said 'hey, let's be nice to one another.' So yeah, I can't blame atheists for thinking all religion is either fundamentalism, or watered-down fundamentalism. Cause if mainline Christians don't even teach their own children any better, how can anyone expect people outside the fold to know any better?”

“So it wasn't because of a bad experience with the church?” asked Mathieu.

Dean glanced up, trying to be stealthy. He didn't want to eavesdrop, but he had been a little curious about what Alfie had said a while back, about leaving church for fifteen years before finding Jesus, or whatever. And besides, if they'd wanted privacy, they wouldn't be in the common room.

“Well, there was one,” Alfie admitted. “But mostly it was just the typical reasons. How can I possibly presume that my religion just happens to be the right one? What about the problem of pain? Why are arguments for God's existence all just arguments from ignorance? So Rev. Naomi was just the last straw, really.”

“Who's that?” Mathieu asked, leaning forward, eager to hear something scandalous.

“The youth pastor at a friend's church,” Alfie said with a sigh. “She was like fundamentalism incarnate. Harsh, controlling, condemning… And the worst part was her smugness – she was so sure that to question her was to question God. After an evening listening to her pontificate, I was just done with religion.”

Dean figured that if he was going to listen in, he might as well formally join the conversation. “So how do you go from that to, well, here?”

“Slowly,” said Alfie, turning to look at Dean. “I was still a religion nerd, so I read a lot. And after a while, it occurred to me, the guys who decided which books would be in the Bible? They weren't fools. I was supposed to believe they somehow didn't notice the contradictions? Like the two different birth stories?”

“Wait, what?” said Mathieu. “The Christmas story?”

“Yeah, there are actually two, very different stories of Jesus's birth. What you see in Christmas pageants is parts from one story and parts from the other, all smashed together.”

“No way,” said Dean.

“I swear it,” said Alfie, one hand in the air. “Go on – why were Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem?”

“For registration,” Mathieu easily supplied.

“Right! Also, wrong.” Alfie said. “In Luke, they live in Nazareth, go to Bethlehem to register for the census, and then go back home to Nazareth. But in Matthew, they live in Bethlehem, then flee to Egypt to escape Herod's massacre. When they come back, they settle in Nazareth. Both authors had to make Jesus get born in Bethlehem and grow up in Nazareth, but they did it in totally different ways.

“So my point is, atheists can't have been the first to notice how the Gospels don't always match up. So what's going on? Wouldn't believers only want the 'correct' version of the story?”

Dean nodded. Who would want a version riddled with errors?

“Fundamentalists try to explain away all the contradictions, but progressive Christians? The authors I was reading knew full well that some parts of the Bible are mythology, not history, but they still believe. So I realized that what they mean by 'believe,' and what I'd always thought it meant, weren't the same thing.”

Dean thought for a moment. “So it's like what Brother Arnaud said about how 'faith' and 'belief' are about trust and commitment to what a story means, not about what you think literally happened.”

Alfie grinned. “Bingo. As it turns out, literalists don't have the most intellectually honest or historically grounded take on faith, after all. In the past, there was a much bigger appreciation for the difference between 'logos' and 'mythos.'”

Dean gave Alfie a blank look.

“Two ways of knowing,” Alfie clarified. “'Logos' is reason. Science. It helps us interact with the external world. 'Mythos' is myths. Stories we use to help us understand and delve into the human condition. Modern society has forgotten about mythos. We think 'myth' just means a made-up story, one that isn't true. But in the past, people understood that they are true – not in a literal sense, but in a very powerful sense. They communicate truths of our human experience that we can't otherwise put into words.”

Dean nodded slowly. It sounded kind of like how Kurt Vonnegut had used a semi-fictional story to help him convey truths about the horrors of war.

“The problem with fundamentalists is that they take mythos, and try to turn it into logos. Then non-believers reject that monstrosity. And rightly so! But instead of restoring the stories and rituals to their proper place – a place of honor! – as mythos, a lot of people just throw them out entirely.”

“So then you became Christian again?” asked Mathieu.

“Not quite. Also, don't say 'again' – what I found is absolutely nothing like what I left. Anyway, I had one more big question – why was Jesus really crucified? People don't get killed for saying 'let's all try to get along.' So, what did he do that threatened the Romans so much they decided to kill him?”

“You've got me,” said Dean. “What did the guy do that pissed them off so much?”

Alfie leaned in, conspiratorially. “The books I was reading, they introduced me to a Jesus I'd never heard of before – a first century Jewish Rabbi who railed against the injustices of imperial occupation. They told me about a God who's always, always, always–” he hit the table with the side of his hand on each repetition “–on the side of the oppressed, regardless of where the religious establishment is. Not always on the side of religious folks, even when they're being assholes.”

“That's sounds really… political,” said Mathieu.

“Jesus has literally always been political,” countered Alfie. “'Savior,' 'Son of God'… Those were Emperor Augustus's titles. So co-opting them and giving them to Jesus was a massive middle finger. It derided the Pax Romana – 'peace' through military might – and proclaimed Pax Christi – peace through peace. It demanded an answer: Who do you worship? Caesar or Christ?”

“And you chose Christ?” Dean hazarded.

“…almost.” said Alfie, with a sheepish shrug. “The books said that none of this stuff was new, or even controversial, in academia. So I went to seminary to see if they were telling the truth. And… they were.

“I'm gonna be perfectly honest – I was angry. My pastors knew all this, but they chose some bullshit weak-tea Jesus who does nothing but sit around singing Kumbayah, instead of the Jesus who actually stands for something? And then they have the absolute gall to wonder why so many young people leave the church!”

Alfie paused to breathe. “But anyway, somewhere between reading, seminary classes, and my first visit to St. Chuck's, I just sorta somehow ended up following Jesus.” He finished with a shrug. “Anticlimactic, I know. But I wouldn't have trusted a big, dramatic conversion experience. There's probably a lesson there, about God coming to each of us in the way we need, or something.”

“So once you were cool with Jesus, you just kinda got on board with the whole God thing, too?” asked Dean.

Alfie bobbed his head from side to side. “Yes and no. Technically, you could still call me an atheist. I still reject the idea of an invisible wizard who lives in the sky. There's no good evidence to support the idea that an all-powerful being directly intervenes in the world. And if he interacts in more subtle ways, like prodding people's hearts in the right direction, then by its very nature that would be impossible to prove or disprove. So I'm solidly agnostic to that idea of God.”

“Atheist to one god, agnostic to another… What's left?” asked Mathieu, incredulously.

Alfie smiled softly. “I know exactly one thing about God, and it’s that God is love. Not just a loving being – God is love itself. Beyond that, I don't know and I honestly don't care. If God objectively exists, then I trust that he's got a good reason for staying hidden, and that he'll use my doubt as a tool for good. And if 'God' is just a poetic way to talk about life-changing, world-changing love, that's good enough for me, too. Hell, it's more than enough.”

Mathieu looked somewhere between puzzled and troubled. “So… You do not really believe in God?”

Alfie thought for a moment. “I'll put it this way – my head doesn't know if God 'exists' or not, but my heart trusts in him. Cause either way, he changed my life. Making a rich white boy care about justice and oppression? That's a miracle, no matter how you slice it.”

Castiel suddenly appeared at the doorway to the stairs. “Dean, you are ready to go make tea?”

Dean looked up, startled. How long had Cas been there? He hadn't heard anyone coming down the stairs. Dean tensed up out of habit. Being overheard was usually a bad thing, in his line of work. But he remembered that this was hardly a private conversation, and forced himself to relax.

Dean checked his watch – it was a good thing Cas showed up when he did, cause he was cutting it close on getting there early enough to add the night hag kryptonite before everyone else arrived.

“Yeah. Yeah, let's get our asses in gear,” said Dean. He took aim with his neglected paper football, and flicked it across the room. It whizzed past Cas's nose as he walked toward Dean, and landed perfectly in the sink. “Field goal!” Dean exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

Cas tilted his head. “Sometimes, Dean, I do not understand things you say.” Alfie chuckled.

“Thanks for the convo, buddy,” Dean said to Alfie.

“Any time. You've probably figured out by now, but I like to ramble about this stuff,” replied Alfie.

Cas held the door for Dean, and they headed up to the big kitchen for Part Two of Breakfast & Tea duty.

Long after Breakfast & Tea Part II was over, Dean found himself swept along to church for the second time that day. Oh well, there were worse things, he thought. The service was pretty typical, for the most part. It started with several songs. The scripture reading, this time, was about the crucifixion of Jesus. More songs, then a prayer read from the podium about Jesus sharing our pain and brokenness. After a while, there was the period of silence.

Something different happened, though, in the middle of “Crucem tuam adoramus Domine, resurrectionem tuam laudamus Domine. Laudamus et glorificamus. Resurrectionem tuam laudamus Domine.” The brothers stood up, but instead of leaving, they moved their little wooden benches out of the way, formed a circle, and knelt. Bobby deftly transferred out of his chair and knelt, too. Two auxiliaires from the church team rushed to place three wooden crates on the floor in the middle of the circle, then hurried back to their posts outside the brothers' area. Meanwhile, two brothers went up to the front of the church and picked up the large crucifix icon. They brought it into the middle of the circle of brothers, and laid it down on top of the crates.

Then, as if responding to some silent signal, the brothers bowed in unison before the cross, all the way down to the floor. They remained like this until the end of the song. When the next song began, the peaceful, almost lullaby-like “In manus tuas, Pater, commendo spiritum meum,” they rose (Bobby returning to his chair with practiced ease) and left the church. Well, thought Dean. That was… theatrical.

Almost immediately, there was a rush of visitors towards the brothers' area. The church duty auxiliaires dimmed the lights and set out tea candles on top of the crucifix icon itself, just in time for the first handful of visitors to arrive and kneel around the cross. Some just knelt, others bowed low to rest their foreheads on the icon. The back half of the brothers' area was crammed full of people, kneeling and patiently waiting for their turn around the cross. As one person finished their prayer and left, often crossing themself as they did, one of the two auxiliaires at the front of the crowd would direct the next person to take the open space. For something that started out looking like a wild stampede, it was actually pretty well organized.

“…like a miniature Good Friday and Easter every week, with the prayers around the cross today and the candles tomorrow. My favorite part is…” Dean overheard someone say as they walked past. That helped to explain what on earth was going on, at least. Today's evening prayers were about the death of Jesus. And tomorrow they'd have the candles again, like he'd seen during Field Hospitality, to celebrate the resurrection. Still, bowing down to a painting seemed really weird. He definitely didn't remember such intense use of props at Pastor Jim's church. Then again, Dean was the last person who could criticize religious “props,” seeing as half the stuff in Baby's trunk probably qualified. Used right, they could be damn powerful.

Almost all of the other auxiliaires had left right after the brothers did. Juraj was in line to pray around the cross, and a girl Dean didn't recognize was still sitting in the auxiliaires' area, but otherwise it was empty. He figured it was time to go.

As he walked through the gate to Maison d'Ange, Dean remembered the laundry he'd left in the washing machine. Crap, he'd forgotten to hang it up to dry. Ah well, he'd just go hang it up now.

“…much less dramatic than last time I was at prayers around the cross,” Dean heard Raphael say as he entered the common room.

“Why, what happened last time?” asked Prakash.

Dean went to the laundry room, but could still hear what they were saying in the common room.

“You did not hear about what happened during the meeting in San Lorenzo?” Raphael asked.

Someone else's clothes were in the washing machine, but Dean easily spotted his in a laundry basket off to the side. He grabbed the basket, as well as the cup of clothespins on the shelf, and headed back to the common room.

“If he knew, he would not have asked,” said Dino, chucking a ball of paper at Raphael (and hitting Dean, instead).

“I was at the San Lorenzo meeting, too!” said Victor, with a smile. “And the one in Italy, and Spain, and of course the one in Portugal.”

“Well, tell me what happened already!” demanded Prakash.

“There was a fire,” said Raphael, as nonchalant as if he was announcing there had been rain.

“There was a fire?” Dino repeated in an astonished tone. “What happened? Did the church burn down?”

“Don't be silly,” said Prakash. “If the church burned down, he would have said 'the church burned down,' not 'there was a fire.'”

“The prayers around the cross had just started,” said Victor, “when one of the overhead lights just… caught fire. The guy next to me pointed it out, and I just watched for a minute until my brain turned back on and I realized I should probably get ready to evacuate. It looked for a few seconds like the fire was burning itself out, but then it flared up again, and anyway they announced that everyone should go slowly to the nearest exit.”

“They continued prayers in the nearby field,” said Raphael. “But many people did not know, or were planning to leave soon anyway since it was near the end. The next day, they announced where the emergency exits were each time before prayers. But it was only a small fire. No one was hurt. I do not think anything was damaged, except for the light of course.”

“But firefighters came, and everything. It was kind of exciting,” added Victor.

“What caused the fire to start?” asked Prakash.

Victor shrugged. “Faulty, decades-old wiring, I guess. The whole building we were in looked pretty dated.”

Dean remembered the laundry he was holding, and made his way out the door.

“And do you remember how the entire city had no hot water?” he heard Raphael ask as he left.

“How could I forget?” Victor replied with a laugh.

Dean crossed the courtyard in the rapidly fading daylight, and went through the door in the stone wall and down the stairs to the garden. He found free space on the clotheslines and started hanging up his items. Once everything was hung, he slung the empty laundry basket over his shoulder and made his way back toward the steps to the courtyard.

“Hello, Dean,” came a sudden voice from the garden. Dean looked over to see Cas, standing by the stone bench.

“Oh, hey Cas. Didn't see you there,” he replied. He absentmindedly put the laundry basket and clothespin cup down on the stairs, and crossed the path into the garden. Cas came towards him at the same time, and they ended up meeting near the stone wall which separated the lower garden from the higher courtyard.

Cas glanced past Dean, at the clothes drying rack. “So in America, you not only shower with clothes on, you also dry clothes by moonlight?” he teased.

“Oh, naturally,” said Dean. “Sunlight is too harsh. Moonlight keeps the colors from fading.”

“It does not appear to work,” said Cas, reaching out to lightly stroke Dean's faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

Dean swallowed hard. Yet again, he wondered if this was a purely platonic touch, or… After all, who ever said that one guy can't comment on another guy's t-shirt? Alone, at sunset? In a garden, with a convenient six foot wall between them and anyone else?

Cas suddenly took his hand away. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked out over the distant hills and fields. Dean tried desperately to think of something, anything, to say.

“So, uh, did you hear about the time the lights caught fire during prayers around the cross?” Wow, yeah, church. Great subject to bring up right now. The conditions were totally right for prayer.

“Yes,” said Cas, whipping his head back to look at Dean, awfully enthusiastically. “In San Lorenzo, yes? They evacuate entire chapel, I hear.”

“I'm surprised that doesn't happen more often, what with all the candles,” Dean said. Smooth, Dean, he thought. Allude to the possibility of the church burning down. That's a great idea.

Cas shrugged. “Candles were used thousands of years before electricity. Most times, there is not problem.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right,” Dean said, for lack of anything better to add. There was an awkward pause. Cas looked at Dean. Dean looked down at his shoes. He fiddled with the skull bracelet on his wrist.

“What is?” Cas suddenly asked, nodding at the bracelet.

Dean looked up. “What, this? Just a bracelet.” He raised his arm so Cas could get a better look. “Someone gave it to me,” he added.

“There is story here, yes?” said Cas.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. There was, of course. But he wasn't sure it was something Cas would want to hear.

“Tell me,” said Cas.

So Dean did. “It's nothing really. I just helped someone out a few years ago, and he gave me his bracelet.”

“This must have been big help,” Cas prodded.

“Well, yeah. I mean, I guess I kinda saved him. He was, uh, trapped inside an overturned car, on a back road. And his phone was dead, so he couldn't call 911. I was driving by, and helped him escape out the window. He wanted to pay me, but I wouldn't take his money, so he insisted on taking me out for a drink, his treat. One thing led to another and, uh, he gave me his bracelet to remember him by.”

The story he fed Cas was, of course, only somewhat true. He'd saved Neal from a vengeful spirit, not an overturned car. It hadn't been his first time hooking up with a guy on a hunt, but it had been his first solo hunt. And the first time he'd spent the night, afterward. The next morning, before Dean left, Neal had slid his bracelet onto Dean's wrist, kissed him, and told Dean to remember him.

“You are hero,” said Cas, his eyes wide. He took Dean's hand in his and turned it to get a better look at the bracelet. “And I think maybe you are more, ah, sentimental, than you let people see.”

Dean's breath caught in his chest. He was acutely aware of Cas's warm hands on his. He thought back on how he'd felt toward Neal. He thought about how he felt toward Cas right now. Slowly, he closed his fingers to hold Cas's hand in return. “I think,” he started to say. It came out hoarse. “I think maybe I'm not completely straight after all.”

Cas's eyes went wider. For a moment, they just stared at each other.

“Do you want…” Cas said quietly, almost a whisper. “Do you want to…” He looked over to the side, and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Ah, I mean… 'Polish prayers'…”

Dean swallowed. “I think I'd rather you taught me some Russian ones,” he said. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he surged forward and captured Cas's lips with his own. After taking a moment to process that this was really happening, Cas kissed back. He let Dean lead, but Dean was still worried about pushing too far. He brought his hands up to cradle Cas's face while kissing him slowly and gently, fighting the instincts telling him to pull him closer, go faster.

Cas trailed his fingers across Dean's shirt, and Dean's breath hitched at the light, teasing touch. Cas clutched Dean's shirt in his fists and pulled him closer. Dean stifled a moan and moved one hand to grasp the back of Cas's head. Just as he was tangling his fingers in Cas's hair, though, Castiel pulled back.

“Wait,” Cas whispered. He let go of Dean's shirt and pushed him away. Dean tensed. Did he do something wrong? Was Cas upset with him?

Castiel reached up with both hands and took off his glasses. Then he stepped forward and kissed Dean again.

Dean closed his eyes and threw himself into the kiss. One hand went to the back of Cas's head again, while the other settled on his hip. Cas wrapped the arm holding his glasses around Dean's neck, and his other arm around Dean's waist. Dean pulled back to look at Cas in the last bit of twilight, then noticed the stone wall and couldn't resist. Putting both hands on Cas's hips, Dean roughly guided Cas backwards until he was pressed up against the wall.

He ducked his head slightly to kiss that glorious neck he'd been fantasizing about all these weeks. Cas gasped, and leaned his head back to permit access. Dean mouthed and nipped at the tender skin, just barely holding himself back enough to avoid leaving marks. Part of him wanted desperately to mark Cas up for all to see, but his higher brain functions were intact just enough to know that would be a bad idea. Still, there was no harm as long as he controlled himself. He kissed his way up to Cas's ear, sucking at his earlobe before continuing up to graze his teeth across the shell. Cas shuddered and let out a whimper. Oh, Dean was going to have to remember that spot. But for now there was so much more to explore. He went back down the side of Cas's neck, then up the front, feeling the coarse stubble on his lips, finally kissing him on the chin and then once again on the lips.

Cas tentatively tried mimicking Dean's movements, kissing a curved path across Dean's cheek, past his jawline, and down his neck. His movements were cautious and a little clumsy, but Dean stroked and grabbed at his hair to urge him onward. When Cas returned to Dean's lips, Dean savored the sensation for a long moment before pulling back again. He slipped his hands up under Cas's shirt to feel the soft skin beneath, while giving attention to the side of Cas's neck he'd neglected before.

Soon, though, Cas grabbed both sides of Dean's face and pulled him back up to his lips. Dean kissed him slowly now, leisurely, focusing on every small sensation. He nipped at Cas's lower lip, holding it with his teeth, tugging at it before releasing it again. Cas leveraged himself off of the wall as best he could, chasing after Dean's lips and trying to press their bodies together.

“Um,” said Dean, pulling back just enough to speak. “I think I'm gonna need a cold shower.” Cas tilted his head and looked at Dean questioningly. “I'm having a little, uh, 'problem,'” Dean explained, looking down toward his jeans to indicate what sort of “problem” he was referring to. “Well, not little, I mean! Definitely not little! My 'problem' is perfectly…” He trailed off, noticing the amused look on Cas's face.

“Ah, yes,” Cas responded. “I am… starting to have same 'problem.'”

Dean had a strong urge to verify this statement for himself, but he was still acutely aware of Cas's inexperience, as well as the tenuous nature of the privacy they'd found. “Maybe we should head back inside,” he suggested. “Before things get…” It felt like a Herculean feat to reign himself in, but he didn't want to overwhelm Cas with too much, too fast.

Cas swallowed. “This is probably good idea,” he said. He looked down for a moment, then back up, into Dean's eyes. “…for now?” he added.

Dean grinned. He leaned in and kissed Cas one more time, lingering close to his lips even after parting. “I'm counting on it,” he murmured. Dean took Cas's hand and led him toward the stairs back up to the courtyard. He accidentally kicked the forgotten laundry basket on the way, spilling the cup of clothespins inside the basket. He picked the basket up. He'd deal with the clothespins inside. Dean gave Cas's hand a squeeze, and leaned in to kiss him on the forehead, before opening the door so they could walk back up to the house.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c67345000e117d199aa53abe91cd1f0f/tumblr_piu1nsQ6k81wptgbso4_1280.png)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * OMG FUCKING FINALLY!!!
>   * The fire during evening prayers is a true story, though of course it didn't happen in San Lorenzo, as that is a made-up country from _Cat's Cradle_ by Kurt Vonnegut (which Dean would know, if he'd been reading it more... but breaking the fourth wall is very Vonnegut, after all)
>   * Neal is named after a character in [_Last of the American Boys_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/888935) by nightstiel, a pre-canon Dean/OMC fic. This fic is not compatible with that one, so as with Toshi, the name is just an homage and not meant to suggest that it's the same character. It's a sweet little fic, though, which I definitely recommend.
>   * Extended Scene:
>     * The discussion with Alfie in this chapter has been cut down from its original length, too (god, does he ever shut up??). [The uncut scene is here](http://brotherfaithsisterdoubt.tumblr.com/post/180697859910).
> 



	30. Week Four, Saturday

Charlie didn't say anything but Dean could swear, by the little grin on her face, that she knew. For his part, Dean did his best to carry on as if nothing had happened. The last thing he needed was for everyone to start asking why he was smiling so much and gazing so dreamily at Cas. Cas appeared to be taking the same basic approach. But Dean couldn't hold himself back entirely from glancing at Cas from time to time, and he could tell from the way the hairs stood up on the back of his neck that Cas was stealing glances at him, too.

Dean was also surprised, though, by how normal everything felt. After his confession last night, it seemed like everything should have been different. But here he was, like every other day of this past week, stirring up big pots of tea and cocoa. And there was Cas, same as usual, setting out baskets of bread rolls and boxes of butter pats and chocolate sticks. For a world where everything had just changed overnight, where he was no longer the manly heterosexual man he'd always thought he was, the world was still pretty much the same. He was still pretty much the same. And that was the weirdest thing of all – how easy it was, now, to think of himself as bi. It still felt strange, but it didn't feel wrong.

Most of all, though, he thought about kissing Cas, and when he could do it again, and if he'd have the opportunity to see and touch and kiss more of him. His hook-ups with guys in the past had always been one-offs. He didn't want Cas to be a one-off.

“I think that tea is stirred plenty,” said Meg.

Dean looked up and realized that he'd zoned out while mixing up the powder and water, and all the other pots had already been carried out to the food serving pavilion. “Oh, yeah, probably is by now,” he replied. “Wanna give me a hand carrying it out?”

“No,” said Meg. “But I will anyway.” She waited for Dean to drop the mixing spoon off in the sink, then reached down to grab one handle while Dean grabbed the other.

As they carried out the pot of tea, they passed Cas going in the other direction. Cas brushed against Dean in passing, bumping their shoulders together. “Sorry,” he said, with a playful tinge to his voice which suggested he wasn't really sorry at all.

Midday prayers and lunch were still a ways off. Dean and Cas were long done with breakfast duty, and neither Ash nor Kevin had work in the mornings this week, so the four of them sat in the common room playing cards.

“Two Jacks,” said Kevin, putting two cards face-down on top of the pile.

“Bullshit,” called Cas.

Kevin sighed dramatically and picked up the entire pile to add to his hand.

“One Queen,” said Cas, starting a new pile.

The sound of footsteps came from the stairs, and Franz entered the room.

“Hey, wanna be dealt in?” asked Dean. Technically there was no way to add a new player in mid-game, but they could bend the rules a little.

“No, thanks though,” replied Franz. He took a seat at the table and grabbed a Quadro Pocket from the cookie basket. He gingerly peeled back the paper wrapper, being careful not to tear it, and picked the sandwich cookie up to examine it. He gently tried tugging at and twisting the wafers, but the hazelnut cream held them firmly together.

“Are you going to eat that? Or are you trying to dissect it for science?” asked Ash.

“I have plans for it,” said Franz, with a devious grin. He got up and retrieved a butter knife from the kitchen. With it, he was able to slowly slice through the cream filling and separate the two halves. Then he got back up and started searching through the kitchen cupboards. By this point, the other boys had temporarily forgotten their card game, and were observing Franz's curious behavior. He returned to the table holding salt and pepper shakers, which he then proceeded to shake liberally over one half of the cookie.

“Are you seriously planning to eat that now?” asked Dean. He was no stranger to creative food combinations, but this just looked gross.

“Oh, I won't eat it,” said Franz. “But have you noticed how Zachariah always has a Quadro Pocket when he gets back from his morning work assignment?”

Franz's devious grin was contagious. Dean set his cards down. He walked deliberately toward one of the kitchen cupboards, and returned to the table with Putu's sambal. Franz's eyes went wild with delight when he realized what Dean was suggesting. He grabbed the tube, squeezed a little bit of the paste onto his knife, and carefully spread it in a circle around the edge of the other cookie half. Now, no matter which side Zachariah took his first (and presumably only) bite from, he'd get a hefty dose of spicy chilis.

“Wait, I have an idea,” said Kevin, similarly putting aside his mountain of cards and making a beeline for the refrigerator. He returned with a bottle of yellow mustard.

“Friggin' sweet,” said Dean.

Franz looked more concerned. “It will squish out the sides when I put them back together, though, and give everything away.”

“Not if you remove some cream,” said Kevin.

“Brilliant.” Franz used the knife's blunt tip to carefully scrape away the filling from inside the ring of sambal. The void was quickly filled with a blob of mustard. Franz sat back and examined his handiwork. “Anything else?”

“He will return soon,” said Cas, looking down at his watch.

“Quick, wrap it back up,” said Ash.

Franz carefully rejoined the two sides, giving them a good press so the ingredients sealed together. Then he meticulously re-folded the wrapper around it. It looked like it had never been touched.

“What if it’s too easy to open? Put a little glue on it so it has a 'pop'!” said Kevin.

“But what if the glue doesn't have time to dry?” asked Ash. “That would give everything away too soon!”

“I think it will be fine,” said Franz, settling the adulterated cookie back in the middle of the cookie basket. “He'll just tear off the wrapper, anyway.”

“Don't put it right in the center,” said Dean. “That's too suspicious. And here, I'll hide the other Quadro Pockets so he doesn't grab one of them, instead.” Dean picked out all the other readily visible Quadro Pockets, looked around for a good hiding spot, and ended up stashing them in the armoire drawer. Franz, meanwhile, moved the specially prepared one to an off-center location, and partially covered it with a chocolate chip cookie to make it look more natural. Now they just had to wait until Zachariah returned and went to enjoy his post-work snack.

“Ok, it's really important that we act natural,” said Dean. “Don't look at him too much, and for god's sake, don't laugh until he's already bitten into it. We're just having a perfectly normal game of cards. Nothing suspicious about that.” He took his seat again, and everyone else sat back down too. Kevin gave half of his now enormous collection of cards to Franz. “Where were we, anyway?” asked Dean.

“Two Kings,” said Ash, putting his cards down on the central pile.

“Three Aces,” Dean risked.

“That's bullshit,” said Franz, who was still sorting his cards into an orderly hand. Dean slapped his hand down on top of the pile, and dragged it toward himself. At least it wasn't too big, this time.

“I do, however, have three twos,” said Franz, starting yet another new pile.

“One three,” said Kevin.

It was twenty long minutes before Zachariah showed up. In that time, Fintan and Mathieu each returned from their morning jobs, giving the pranksters a chance to tone down their reactions to the door opening and try to look more casual. They also grew bored of Bullshit during the interval, and started playing Hangman on the whiteboard instead.

After Ash's word (“penis”) had been easily guessed, Cas went up and drew out the spaces for a seven-letter word. There was currently an R, two A's, and a most of the poor stickman's body hanging from the gallows.

“I swear to god, Cas,” said Dean. “If this is some Russian word, then so help me…”

“Cannot be Russian,” Cas said with a chuckle. “'Ya' is backwards.” He pointed at the “R” on the board.

“Oh right, you and your backwards 'R,'” said Dean.

“We do not have backwards 'R,'” said Cas. “You have backwards 'Ya'!”

Right as Dean was trying to think of what letter to chance next, the door opened and their unwitting guest of honor walked in. “We have one more guess,” Dean said to the other players. “So let's think this through before we use it.” He tried to act as if he was just focusing on the game, but of course, he had one eye on Zachariah.

“Guess Q. Get the pain over with,” suggested Kevin.

“You have more guesses,” said Cas. “He does not have hands or feet yet.”

“That's cheating,” announced Zachariah. “You're supposed to decide how many body parts there are before you start playing, not when the players are about to lose.”

“Then you do this when is your turn,” said Cas.

“It's supposed to be the same for everyone,” protested Zachariah. “To keep it fair.”

“It’s already unfair,” said Kevin. “This isn’t even my alphabet! We’re just playing for fun.”

Dean was tempted to tell Zachariah to leave them alone and eat his damn Quadro Pocket, but was afraid that even the mere mention of the cookie might give something away. Luckily, Zachariah didn't need the encouragement. He grumbled, looked into the cookie basket, and scooped up the special Quadro Pocket, all on his own.

“Maybe we should try another vowel,” said Frantz, his voice a little strained from the effort of trying to play it cool. Zachariah tore the wrapper off the cookie and raised it to his mouth. Everyone else in the room held their breath. He sank his teeth in, and took a large bite. A moment later, his facial expression turned to one of confusion. He chewed. His expression became one of disgust. Then, seeing the barely controlled laughter on everyone else's faces, anger.

“What did you do to it?” he demanded, spitting the bite out into his hand and turning red. Now, the other guys were laughing openly, and much too hard to answer Zachariah's question even if they'd wanted to. “Contaminating food is illegal, you know!” he exclaimed. He threw the cookie into the sink, grabbed a paper towel and started trying to scrub the leftover bits of filling off his tongue. “You did this!” he exclaimed, pointing at Dean.

“Who, me? You've got the wrong guy, man! I'm innocent!” Well, mostly, thought Dean.

Zachariah turned to Franz. “You, then!”

“You're just guessing now,” said Franz. “You don't know. It could have been any of us. Or all of us! Besides, how would we have known you'd be the one to eat it?”

“I know you did it,” said Zachariah, narrowing his eyes at Franz.

“Do you? Just a second ago, you were sure it was me,” said Dean.

Zachariah scowled at Dean. He threw his paper towel into the sink too, then turned and stalked upstairs. His heavy footsteps could be heard stomping up the stairs.

Franz broke out in another burst of laughter. He stood up, scooped Zachariah's mess out of the sink, and tossed it into the garbage. “I know it was wrong, but oh, it was worth it!”

Dean blearily checked the clock. It was nearly two in the morning, and a full bladder had woken him up. He face-planted back into the pillow. God dammit. Why hadn't he peed before going to sleep? He groaned and dragged himself out of bed, then trudged down the stairs to the bathroom on the second floor.

After taking care of business and washing his hands, Dean climbed back up the stairs. He noticed Cas's door was open, and couldn't resist the urge to take a quick peek inside. What he saw, however, turned his blood to ice. Cas was lying on his back in bed, struggling and gasping for breath. And, right at the edge of perceptibility, there was a sort of shimmer in the air. It was like a mist hovering in place, in the vague form of a creature. A creature sitting on Cas's chest.

“Cas!” Dean rushed into the room. As soon as he laid a hand on Cas's arm, an invisible force pushed him to the side as it ran past. Dean squinted, and waved his hand above Cas's chest, but could neither see nor feel the creature. Dean looked at Cas's face. His eyes were open now, but he still looked frozen in place. The look on his face broke Dean's heart – it was pure despair.

“Cas, buddy,” Dean said. He kept one hand on Cas's arm, and used the other to stroke his cheek. “Are you okay? Talk to me, Cas.”

Cas turned his head to look at Dean. The look in his eyes changed into a peculiar mix of wonder mixed with fear. “Dean?” he croaked. He rolled onto his side and threw his arms around Dean, burying his face into his chest.

Dean adjusted his arms, wrapping one around Cas's back and petting his hair with the other. “Shh, it's okay now, you're safe,” he said quietly as he felt Cas silently sobbing. They stayed just like that until Dean's knees began to protest from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. “Hey, Cas, I've gotta move my legs,” he said. “You're gonna have to let go.” Cas squeezed Dean harder. “Just for a second, I promise,” Dean hurried to add. “Just, uh, move over so I have somewhere to sit.”

Cas reluctantly let go and sat up as much as he could without hitting his head on the top bunk bed. Dean tried to sit on the edge of the bed, but quickly realized that what he was trying to do wouldn't work with the top bunk in the way. There was a little bit of awkward shuffling and rearranging their bodies before they were both lying down, face-to-face, with Cas's head nestled under Dean's chin. Cas clutched at Dean's t-shirt, while Dean gently stroked Cas's back and nuzzled into his hair.

Slowly, Cas's breathing returned to normal and he was able to relax his tense muscles. Dean also started to feel his adrenaline wear off, and his sleepiness kick back in. He yawned, turning his head to the side to avoid a mouthful of hair.

“Please,” came Cas's voice, softly. “Stay.”

“I won't leave you,” Dean replied.


	31. Week Four, Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Il Signore ti ristora](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_usTqyfQ178) (Italian)
>   * Pronunciations:
>     * [Kotoryy chas](https://translate.google.com/#ru/en/Kotoryy%20chas)
> 


Dean's alarm clock sounded strange the next morning. His bed felt strange, too. As awareness slowly came back to him, he realized it was because that was Castiel's alarm clock, and this was Castiel's bed. At some point during the night, Cas had rolled over so they were now back-to-front. Cas groaned and leaned back into Dean. “Kotoryy chas?” he mumbled.

“Come again?” Dean replied.

“What time it is?” said Cas.

Dean groped blindly at the bedside table until he found something that felt more or less clock-like, and stopped beeping when he hit it. He blinked several times until he could see clearly enough to read the time. “Ugh, it's six o'clock,” said Dean. “Do we have breakfast today?”

“Nyet,” Cas said into the pillow. “Is Sunday jobs today.”

“So why are we awake so early?”

“I forgot to change alarm clock.”

“You monster,” Dean groaned.

“Here, give me,” Cas said, blindly flailing an arm behind him to receive the clock. He rubbed his eyes and fiddled with the back of the clock, then stretched to put it back on the table. Then he settled back against Dean's chest again. They laid like that for a while, trying to get another couple hours of sleep before they had to wake up for real.

Dean couldn't fall back to sleep, though. The memory of last night came flooding back. He couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Was the night hag onto him? Had it attacked someone close to him on purpose? He held Cas tighter.

After breakfast, Dean booked it up to Māja to leave a note for Bobby before the building closed so everyone could go to Sunday Mass. The auxiliaire at the podium looked anxious to close up, so Dean kept the message concise. “Last night –Dean”

“This is urgent,” he told the auxiliaire. “Can you make sure Bob– Brother Robert gets it as soon as possible?”

“I can try,” said the auxiliaire. “But I cannot make any promises.” That would have to be good enough. The bells started to ring, and Dean was politely shooed out of the building.

As Dean was about to turn onto the main road to head back to Maison d'Ange, a group of d'Ange guys were coming up the road to go to church. He couldn't think of an excuse in the thirty seconds before they caught up with him, so he ended up heading to Mass along with them.

Mass was, in Dean's opinion, not as interesting as the normal weekday prayer services. For starters, there was more speaking and less singing than usual. And the speaking was in French, and didn't always get translated, so he was kinda lost for much of the service.

There were some typical St. Chuck's prayers from the songbook, though. The service had started out with “Il Signore ti ristora. Dio non allontana. Il Signore viene ad incontrarti. Viene ad incontrarti.”

There were lots of sung responses to different parts of the Mass, printed on a separate white sheet of paper that was handed out along with the songbooks. They weren't repeated over and over like the normal prayers, though, so they weren't so useful for entering a meditative state. It made sense that the community could do whatever they wanted with their own prayer services, but probably had to follow some sort of official rules for Sunday Mass. All things considered, he concluded that he hadn't missed much by skipping Mass the previous weeks. Maybe it was different for folks who understood all the symbolisms and meanings in the service, though.

After Mass, there was a little time to kill before lunch. Dean wanted to find Cas and see how he was doing after last night.

Cas wasn't in the common room. Dean did notice, however, a hand-drawn greeting card on the table. There was a crude self-portrait of Juraj on the front, along with contact information to keep in touch with him now that he'd left. Inside, he'd written a farewell message for his housemates.

“For brothers in Maison d'Ange. You've asked me what I got from St. Chuck's and what's St. Chuck's and you mean for me… World is here. Suffering is here, joy is here. Sadness is here, happiness is here, whole world is here. Every pain, every hope, every comfort, every dream, all is here. God is here, in you and around you. World is here, you within world, world within you, and God in us. Miracle in world, life in world, friendship in world. World is here.”

Dean looked back up at the first sentence. Brothers. It was kind of amazing how more than a dozen guys, from nearly as many countries, could form such strong bonds. He felt a pang of envy. The only brother he'd ever had was his, well, brother. The one he used to have the strongest of bonds with, but now hadn't seen in years. He was enjoying the bits of camaraderie he had with the guys here, but he couldn't think of himself as one of the “brothers in Maison d'Ange.” They were here because something drew them all here, after all, while he was only here to work a case. The past few weeks were a nice change from the solitary nature of most hunts, but the need for discretion still separated him from the others. Even Cas.

Dean carefully left the card propped up where it could be easily seen by the others still living in the house.

He went out to the courtyard and looked out into the garden to see if Cas was there, but it was empty. So he went back inside and climbed the stairs, thinking Cas might be in his bedroom. And so he was, sitting at his desk, writing in what looked like some kind of journal. Dean knocked on the open door. Cas turned to see who it was.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” said Dean. “Mind if I come in?”

Cas gestured for him to have a seat on the bed, the only place to sit other than the desk chair. The top bunk was still in the way of sitting up straight, but he was able to sit relatively comfortably as long as he leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees. In the meantime, Cas turned sideways and draped an arm over the chair back so he could see Dean more easily.

“How… how are you doing? After last night, I mean.”

There was a pause. “I will be okay, I think,” Cas said. Dean was bothered by the use of the future tense, but it was understandable.

Dean gritted his teeth. He felt a little guilty about burdening Cas with more after he'd already been through so much, but he deserved to know the truth – the whole truth. He just had to figure out how to broach the subject. He swallowed.

“What, uh, what were you dreaming about?” That definitely wasn't the right way to start this conversation, but it was too late to take it back now.

Cas drew a breath as if he was about to speak, but then just let it out again, shook his head, and looked down.

“Never mind,” said Dean. “It's not important. Uh, I mean, maybe it is important. But it's none of my business. You can… just…”

“Is okay,” Cas mumbled.

“What if,” Dean started again. “What if I knew what happened? Last night?”

Cas looked up again. He sounded confused. “Of course you know. You were here.”

“No, I mean, what if there was more going on last night than just a normal bad dream?”

“I do not understand,” said Cas.

Dean paused. This conversation was never easy. The last time he'd told someone he cared about, it hadn't gone well. “You're going to think I'm crazy,” he said.

Cas came over and sat next to Dean on the bed. “I will if you do not tell me what you are talking about,” he said, sounding mildly annoyed.

Dean took a deep breath. “I don't think last night was just random. I think someone – or something – caused it.”

Cas closed his eyes and shook his head. “Is just bad dream. What could cause this?”

“A monster,” said Dean. “A night hag, to be specific. They sit on your chest, crushing the breath out of you and causing nightmares.”

Cas furrowed his brow. “What, like kikimora?”

“Yes!” said Dean. “Well, probably not a kikimora. One of its cousins, maybe.”

“But kikimora is just fairy tale,” Cas protested. “Like Baba Yaga. Just story to scare children.”

Dean tried to think of how he could convince Cas. “You're not the first one,” he said. “There have been a dozen or so attacks already here at St. Chuck's. That's why I'm here. My 'special project' with Brother Robert? It has nothing to do with organizing archives. It's hunting this monster down and killing it.”

Cas's brow was still furrowed. He looked intently at Dean. “Brother Robert says this is monster, too?”

Dean nodded. “He's the one who invited me here. He used to be a hunter, too. This is what I do – I hunt monsters. I'm not a concierge mechanic. Hell, I don't even know if that's a real thing.”

Cas raised a hand to rub his eyes. “Is too much,” he said. “Monsters, they are not real.”

Dean let out a breath. This wasn't going the way he'd hoped. If only he had some sort of physical evidence, like– He tugged at the neck of his t-shirt, exposing his shoulder. “This is from a werewolf.” He bent down and pulled up the leg of his jeans. “This is a chupacabra bite. This,” he parted his hair to reveal a small bald patch, “is from a poltergeist throwing a roller skate at me. And this, if I'm not mistaken…” He found the hem of Cas's shirt, and gave him a questioning look. Cas looked confused as hell, but nodded. Dean lifted Cas's shirt up to expose his chest. Sure enough, there was a big, dark red splotch that Dean knew would turn purple by the end of the day. “…is from a night hag.” The illustrations in Bobby's books had depicted night hags crouching on their victim's chest, and Cas's bruise did look vaguely like a backside and two feet. “If it was just a run-of-the-mill bad dream, where did this bruise come from?” he asked.

Cas looked down, then pulled the shirt over his head so he could get a better look. He looked back at Dean with astonishment. “Everything you said, it is really true? You promise this?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Dean replied.

“Who knows about this?”

“As far as I know, it's just me, Brother Robert, and Brother Marcel,” said Dean. “Everyone else still thinks they're just unrelated nightmares, if they know about it at all. And we're trying to keep it that way.”

“Then why do you tell me?” asked Cas.

“Because you deserve to know the truth,” Dean said. He paused. He hadn't thought that about the other victims. If anything, he'd thought they were better off not knowing. So why was Cas different? “Because…” He looked Cas in the eye. “Because I don't want to lie to you anymore.”

“What more is there that is… not true?”

Dean thought for a moment. He wasn't even sure who'd been around for each lie anymore, so he decided to just come clean about everything. “This is the first time I've ever been to St. Chuck's. First time out of the States, actually. And the guy who gave me this bracelet? I didn't save him from an overturned car. It was a ghost.”

Cas nodded thoughtfully.

“Hell, my name isn't Dean Waters. It's Dean Winchester. And…” With the monster stuff out of the way, this was the part he was most nervous about now. But it was important to Cas, so he had the right to know. “I'm not even Christian. Not really.”

Cas regarded him. “You have no faith, Dean?”

“I believe there is a God,” Dean answered, looking at nothing in particular in front of him. “But I’m not sure he still believes in us. I wish he did, but in my line of work it's pretty hard to believe.”

“Brother Raoul said that 'the simple desire for God is already the beginning of faith,'” said Cas. “And also, in prayer this morning it says 'The Lord comes to meet you.' One day, perhaps, God will be there in way you do not expect. Maybe when you need it most, God will send angel to raise you up.” He chuckled.

“What are you laughing about?” asked Dean.

“If monsters are real, then angels also must be real. Do you think they really are flaming wheels, covered with eyes?”

“Well if I ever meet one,” said Dean, “I'll be sure to let you know.”

“Dean,” said Brother Nathanaël, right as Dean was about to get up and bus his lunch dishes.

“Yeah?” said Dean, a tiny, paranoid part of his mind wondering if he was in trouble. A nice hearty lunch had settled his nerves a little bit, but he still felt on edge in light of everything that had happened over the past twelve hours.

“I have a message for you,” Brother Nathanaël continued, shifting in his seat to fish the paper out of his pocket. “Brother Robert said to get it to you as soon as possible.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Dean, stretching across the table to grab the note. He unfolded it and read. “Can't meet for long today, but let's touch base. 4pm, Māja. –Br. Robert” Dean nodded to himself. He was supposed to be working from two thirty until six thirty, but he'd find a way to sneak off and see Bobby. A meeting with a brother presumably took precedence over work, anyway. But speaking of work, he had to get a move on or he'd miss the brief training session before he was officially on duty. So he stashed the note in his own pocket, and got back to cleaning his spot at the table.

“…so it's pretty simple, once you get the hang of it,” Tessa, the auxiliaire in charge of Kuća, told Dean and Dorothy. “Just select the right color and number of meal tickets, and hole-punch any meals they won't be here for. Then write up their picnic ticket, if they get one, and record everything in the ledger. And be sure to remind them that everyone in their group needs to put their name and country on their meal ticket. Any questions?” Dean and Dorothy shook their heads.

There was already a glut of new visitors waiting for their meal tickets. As soon as Tessa poked her head out of the building and announced that anyone waiting for them could come back in now, Dean and Dorothy were faced with a line eight people deep.

“So, I do meal tickets, you do picnics?” said Dean. Incidentally, he had finally learned what “picnics” referred to in St. Chuck's English. They were boxed lunches distributed to departing visitors each Sunday, since most left right after Mass instead of staying for one last meal.

“Well yeah, that's how it looks,” Dorothy replied, gesturing at the relevant papers in front of each of them. “Shall we?” Dean tried to figure out if he'd just been insulted or not, and ended up just nodding. Dorothy gestured to the first person in line to step forward, and they got to work.

It wasn't difficult work, but it did take a little bit of concentration. There were different color meal tickets for youth visitors, over-thirty visitors, and families staying at Alfena. Sometimes, such as when a group consisted of parents and their teenaged children, or parents with a combination of older and younger children, there was more than one color within the same group. At least the tickets were paperclipped together in groups of five, making it easier to count out the correct number for larger groups. Like the priest who had brought more than twenty youths from his parish.

After the initial rush, there was a bit of a lull. Dean stretched and leaned back in his chair.

“So how do you know Red?” Dorothy asked him.

“What? Oh, we had tents next to each other during our field week,” Dean answered.

“You just met this trip?” Dorothy asked. “From the way she talked, I figured you'd known each other from before.”

Dean shrugged. “Well, I guess we've known each other for a month now, so it's not like we just, just met.”

“Fair enough,” replied Dorothy. “I guess I can't really say anything, since I didn't meet her until she moved into Baptême.”

“How long have you been here?” Dean asked.

“This will be my seventh week. And you're going into your fifth, yeah?”

Dean quickly counted on his fingers. “Yeah, how'd you know?”

“Same as Charlie,” she said, tapping her temple. “Second month – that's what makes or breaks an auxiliaire, you know. That's when the sisters and the brothers get to see who's just here for an extended holiday, and who's here for the real monastic experience. Charlie'll make it, I think. You, well I don't know you well enough to say. How long you planning on staying, anyway?”

As long as this damn hunt takes, thought Dean. “Uh, I'm kinda playing it by ear,” he hedged. “Taking it one week at a time.”

Dorothy considered his answer. “That's smart,” she concluded. “Means you probably haven't bit off more than you can chew.”

Another couple of group leaders showed up at their table, so they had to get back to work preparing the meal and picnic tickets. That was the beginning of a steady trickle. They didn't come quickly enough for a long line to form again, but there was one group leader after another for a good while.

“So, the other day,” Dean said once they hit another lull. “At Site Seven. You and Charlie looked… cozy.”

Charlie regarded Dean with a suspicious look for a moment, before relenting. “Red says you're safe. Yeah, you could say we're 'cozy.'”

“Must be difficult getting any privacy, if the girls' houses are anything like the boys',” said Dean. “There's always somebody around!”

“We find ways,” said Dorothy, with an amused look.

“Up by the love gate?” teased Dean.

“Psh,” Dorothy said. “The love gate is for amateurs. Only go to the love gate if you're trying to get caught. You've gotta be a little more creative than that.”

Dean leaned in conspiratorially and flashed his most charming grin. “Got any tips?”

“Do your own field work, Freckles!” Dorothy replied. “If I give away our spots, soon everyone will know about them!” She grinned in return. “So, who are you trying to sneak off with, anyway?”

Dean sat up straight. “Oh, uh, nobody. Just, uh, planning ahead? Just in case?”

Dorothy chuckled. “Whatever you say, Freckles. I just hope she's worth the risk of getting caught.” She must have noticed something in his expression, though, because she casually added, “Or he.”

Before Dean could think of a way to respond, another group leader in search of meal tickets appeared in front of their table. Phew, saved.

“Here are your five youth meal tickets and two adult tickets,” Dean said with a smile. “Remember to write in your name and country.” The visitor nodded and walked away. Dean turned back to Dorothy. “So what happens at the end of the summer, when you go home?” he asked.

“Most St. Chuck's relationships fall apart pretty damn quickly,” said Dorothy. “But I'm not gonna let Red go that easily. It's only a four-day ride from Helsinki to Köln. I bet I can make it in three.” She shrugged. “I made it here in four days.”

“Road trip fan?” asked Dean.

Dorothy smiled. “Me, my bike… Give me the open road, any day.”

“I know the feeling,” said Dean.

“Really?” asked Dorothy. “What do you ride?”

“Not ride – I drive a '67 Chevy Impala.”

Dorothy let out a low whistle. “Not bad, for a car. I'll stick to my bike, though. She's a red Indian Junior Scout. We've been all over Europe together, and parts of Asia and Africa too.”

“Damn, if my Baby is vintage, yours is downright antique!” said Dean.

“She was my grandmother's. She's needed a few modifications over the years, but runs better today than she did in the beginning,” said Dorothy, proudly. “Yes ma'am,” she quickly changed tracks, turning to the woman who'd appeared in front of the table. “Can we see your paper slip?” She handed them the receipt she'd gotten when she gave her contribution, and they quickly assembled her collection of meal tickets.

“Have a nice day,” said Dean. “Remember to put your name and country on your ticket!”

“I'll have to look into getting a sidecar, though, for when I take Red to see the world.” She leaned back, smiling as she imagined the trip. “First stop, Greece. And I'm not just talking about the obvious places like the Parthenon, either. I'm going to take her to see the Stone Age ruins at Dimini, and the petrified forest on Lesbos.”

Dean snickered at the mention of Lesbos. Dorothy elbowed him in the ribs, but couldn't hold back a smirk of her own.

When it was coming up on four o'clock, Dean gave Dorothy a sanitized version of why he had to leave for a little while. “Will you be okay on your own?” he asked.

Dorothy waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I'll be fine. Yellow cards for youth, blue for adults, and orange for families, right?”

“Bingo,” said Dean, pointing finger guns at her. “See you in a bit.”

Bobby arrived at Māja moments after Dean did, and beckoned for him to follow back to the furthest away meeting room.

“Hey, we got the new job assignments yesterday,” Dean started as he closed the door. “What's with the two jobs this week?”

“Two jobs?” asked Bobby.

“Yeah, Breakfast & Tea again, and also something called 'La Cascade Coordinator.'”

“Ah, that idjit,” said Bobby. “We have a new brother doing job assignments. At first I told him to make you the La Cascade Coordinator, since it's a relatively easy job that would leave you with plenty of free time. Then I realized that you need to stay on Breakfast & Tea, to keep it up with the herbs. I guess when I told him to change it, he heard to add it. Dammit. Sorry about that. Hope it's not too bad, having to do a normal auxiliaire workload this week.”

Dean shrugged. “I'll manage. Honestly, having too much free time here can get a little boring, what with the no TV. Besides, I got questioned about always having a 'special project' with you, so it's just as well that's not on the assignment sheet this time.”

“Good point,” said Bobby. “Anyway, what did you hear about an attack?”

Dean shook his head. “Not heard. Saw. Cas – my neighbor, across the hall – he was the one attacked this time.”

“Christ,” said Bobby. “Twice in one week. I think it's fair to say we've pissed this thing off. What exactly did you see? Any new clues?”

Dean summarized the incident, mentioning the barely visible form the night hag took on, and how it had pushed Dean out of the way and fled as soon as he reached Cas. (He left out the bits about holding Cas and staying the rest of the night with him.) “Oh,” he added, “and Cas has the start of a nasty bruise on his chest now, where the damn thing was crushing him.”

“Shh, keep your voice down,” said Bobby, and Dean realized he'd gotten loud on that last bit. “Well if this is the second victim with bruising, that makes it sound more likely that it could be that one from Thailand, but it's still far from conclusive.” He sighed. “Still not the break in the case we're looking for.”

“When we do find this monster,” said Dean, darkly, “I swear, I will stab it in its face.”

Back in Kuća, Dorothy was doing just fine without Dean. Dean wasn't sure if it meant that she was perfectly efficient on her own, or just that there hadn't been too many people to take care of, but he was glad his absence hadn't resulted in disaster. From the line of people waiting their turn at the counter, though, it looked like he'd returned just in time.

They handed out a few dozen meal tickets over the next half hour. From the direction of the nearby bell tower, there came the sound of a single bell ringing. Hearing it, Dorothy leaned her chin on her fist and sighed.

“What's wrong?” asked Dean.

“Oh, nothing,” Dorothy said. “I just wish I had the chance to go to the Sunday mid-afternoon prayers for once. It's kind of ridiculous – they encourage auxiliaires to go if we're not working, but then schedule us so we're always working! Or at least, that's how my Sundays always turn out. What about yours?”

“Uh, I didn't even know there were Sunday mid-afternoon prayers,” he admitted. He tried to think back to the official welcome guide he'd received his first day here, which had the basic schedule, but couldn't remember seeing anything about special Sunday prayers except of course for Mass.

“Ah, well they don't exactly advertise it,” Dorothy said. “Since most visitors are too busy coming or going to participate. It's mostly just word of mouth. And they don't even ring all the bells, like they usually do for prayers. Just the one.” She gestured in the direction of the bell tower, where the one bell was still ringing out.

“Guess my Sunday jobs had me too far away to hear it before,” Dean reasoned out loud.

Dorothy chuckled. “That's appropriate for silent prayers, I guess.”

“Silent prayers?”

“Yeah,” she explained. “They call it 'silent prayers for peace.' It's just a half hour of silent prayer in the church. No songs, no music. You could walk by without even noticing anything was going on in there at all.”

“And you really want to go and sit quietly for half an hour?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Well hey, the brothers do it every week, so it can't be that awful. I just want to see what it's like, you know?” Dorothy shrugged. “At least once.”

Dean surveyed the room. There were only two or three group leaders (he couldn't tell if those two at the counter were together or not) checking in at present. “Why not go, then?” he asked. “You covered for me, I can hold down the fort for you.”

Dorothy's eyes lit up. “You sure you won't mind?”

“Nah,” said Dean, with a dismissive hand gesture. “I'll be fine. You go pray for peace, if that's what you're into. As long as that's not just an excuse to sneak off for some Polish prayers – I'll know if it is.”

“Sneak off for what now?” Dorothy was on her feet, but turned back to give Dean a confused look.

Dean remembered that “Polish prayers” was strictly a Maison d'Ange thing. “It's, ah… you know what, never mind. In-joke.”

“If you say so,” said Dorothy. She clapped him on the shoulder. “You're all right, Freckles,” she said, before turning to go.

The evening meeting for next week's Breakfast & Tea was pretty much the same as it had been last week. Jo was still Meals Coordinator, and if she was surprised to see Dean again, she hid it well. The cocoa and tea powders, bread rolls and chocolate sticks and jams, were all in the same places they'd been last week. The only difference was that he'd be working with three different auxiliaires this week, instead of Meg, Isaac, and Cas. He was a little disappointed by that last little bit, but he'd just have to deal.

Dean was surprised to see some familiar faces at the meeting for La Cascade Coordinator, too. First, there was Pasquale, the Italian boy who'd been in charge of Field Hospitality. Then there was Ezekiel, the Canadian boy who'd also been on Field Hospitality, along with Kevin. Then there were four additional auxiliaires – Anna from Northern Ireland, who Dean vaguely remembered from the music night all those weeks ago (the red hair was hard to forget); Lisa, from Greece; Josie, from Denmark; and Billie, from Spain.

“So, welcome to La Cascade Hospitality,” said Pasquale. Well, if this fell under the aegis of Hospitality, then it made sense why Pasquale was here. “Your job will be to ensure that La Cascade remains a peaceful, quiet place for people to come and pray, read, relax…” He emphasized the word “quiet.” “Whatever they want to do, as long as it is quiet and does not disrupt the others who are also trying to enjoy La Cascade.”

He pulled out a piece of foam board with an enlarged print-out of the corner of the official map which contained La Cascade. “Here is the upper gate,” he said, pointing to where the field met the narrow road. “Beyond the upper gate there is the upper field. This is free to use for noisy activities. Many times, Bible study groups will be meeting here during the afternoons, or just groups of friends enjoying the sunshine. This is allowed.

“When you start to walk down toward the lower gate,” he pointed to the paths just below the upper field, “this area is to finish up the conversations and prepare to enter the silent area. Then there is the lower gate.” He pointed to where the path first divided in the woods. “Once you pass through this gate, there is silence. There are signs reminding people of this, but sometimes they need another reminder. So if you are here, and some people are talking, you can invite them to finish their conversation up here before they continue down.

“Now down here,” he indicated the area past the woods, where the pond and the fields around the pond were, “is where most people are headed. So most of the job is spending time down here, reminding people to keep the silence, and if they are being noisy, inviting them to continue what they are doing back in the upper field.

“This is usually more effective than just telling them to be quiet, because it allows them to make the choice if they want to go all the way back up to the upper field, or stay where they are. Now this is the difficult part – do not just tell them and walk away. They will nod and say 'yes, yes,' but you have to stay there and make it awkward for them, so they realize you are serious. Just stand there, smiling and staring at them, until they quiet down or pack up their things and leave.” He demonstrated, giving a mildly creepy smile. The gathered auxiliaires tittered a little nervously.

“The last part of your job is to make sure no one gets left inside when the gates are locked again. This involves walking around all of the paths, telling everyone you see that La Cascade is closing and they need to leave, and sorry but no, they cannot have five more minutes, we really need to know for sure that no one has been left behind. The whole process takes about thirty minutes, so people often think they have thirty minutes more before they have to leave. But that is when the gate is locked – not when people should start thinking about maybe leaving eventually.”

There was more tittering. Pasquale proceeded to explain how three people could most efficiently cover the whole area. “…and once everyone is out and the upper gate is locked, you're free to go,” finished Pasquale. “Any questions?”

“Yeah, um, what does it mean that my job description says 'coordinator'?” asked Dean.

“It means that you will be in charge of the key to the gates,” answered Pasquale. “The rest of you, divide up into groups of three and decide who will have the first shift, and who will have the second shift. The first shift covers when La Cascade is open in the morning, as well as the beginning of when it is open again in the afternoon, since the morning is such a short time. The second shift covers the rest of the afternoon. So both shifts include one closing.”

He turned back to Dean and handed him a key on an oversized wooden keychain, like all the other keys he'd seen at St. Chuck's. “You can hold onto this and return it to Māja after the final closing on Saturday, or you can return it every evening and pick it up again every morning. Whichever makes you most comfortable.

“Because you are the coordinator, it is especially important for you to be on time to each shift. But at the same time, do not open the lower gate unless at least two of your three team members for that shift are present. Hopefully, you will always have all of them, of course. When the shifts change in the afternoon, meet the new team at the lower gate and accompany them down so you know they have arrived. And during closings, it's impossible to double-check everyone's route within the time constraints, but you can go check if someone is taking a long time, and help if they are having difficulty with a stubborn visitor.

“Okay, let's see how the rest of the team is doing,” Pasquale said, turning back to the other auxiliaires. He jotted down who was on each shift, and handed out slips of papers with shift hours printed on them in case anyone needed a reminder. All in all, it sounded like Bobby was right. Dean would have to make a few appearances throughout the day, but overall, would have plenty of downtime. Some of that would go to Breakfast & Tea, but hopefully some of it would also go to finding a break in this damn case already and ganking the son of a bitch who'd attacked Cas.

It wasn't especially late when Dean decided to go to bed, but between the various developments of the past couple days, topped with the hectic nature of Sundays around here, he was ready to lie down and relax. He stopped in the second-floor bathroom to brush his teeth, then headed up to the third floor.

The light was on in Cas's room. Dean rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb and poked his head in to see what Cas was up to. He was in bed, propped up on one elbow as he read a book, but looked up when he heard Dean knocking.

“Evening, stranger,” said Dean.

“Dean,” Cas said with a little smile. He put his book down on the floor, face-down to mark his place, and waved Dean into the room.

“So… whatcha reading?” Dean asked, as he moseyed over to the bed where Cas was still reclining. When he got close enough to see the cover of the book, he saw that it was in Russian. Unsurprising, but it did mean he had no clue what the the book was about just from looking at it. Well, not no clue – it was clearly about something Christian, given the image of a crucifix on the front.

“Is about differences between Eastern and Western Christianity,” explained Cas. “Is true that you believe God is so angry at sin that Jesus had to die as punishment? And without this, every single person would have to pay for their own sins?”

“Well, uh…” Dean faltered, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. It was difficult to balance in a way where he could see Cas's face, but without bumping his head on the bunk above them.

“Maybe not you,” Cas rushed to clarify. “But Western people, generally.”

“I mean, I think so? That's the only way I've ever heard it, at least. What, you don't believe that?”

Cas shook his head. “No, we do not believe that Christ suffers anyone's punishment. We believe he went into death to destroy its power over us.”

Dean tried to wrap his mind around that. “Okay, but… how?”

Cas shrugged. “Book says Western theology tries to understand more logically, Eastern theology tries to understand more mystically. To us, it is not supposed to make perfect sense right now. It is mystery to pray about. Because mind understanding salvation does not bring you closer to God – heart meditating on it does. So to be all logical, it misses the point.

“Besides, we believe sin is like illness, not like crime. Illness needs healing, not punishment. Your way sounds so… cold. Like it is about court of law, not God of love.”

Dean put his hands up. “I’m far from a theology expert. And honestly, I don't have enough of a horse in this race to have a personal opinion.”

“Sorry, I do not mean to interrogate,” Cas said. “It is just strange to me. I have meant for years to learn more about these differences, but I did not expect them to be about things so important. But forget this now.”

Cas took Dean's hand and tugged, until Dean took the hint. He quickly removed his boots and maneuvered his body to lie down next to Cas. There wasn't much room on the twin-sized bed, but they made it work as best they could so they were both lying down, facing each other. Dean scootched down to rest his head against Cas's chest. Cas hissed in pain.

“Shit, sorry Cas, I forgot!” exclaimed Dean, sitting up so fast he forgot about the upper bunk and hit his head.

“No, is not so bad, really,” said Cas.

“Let me see?” Dean asked.

Cas pushed the sheet aside and lifted the hem of his t-shirt. Dean's hands trailed behind Cas's, gently stroking the warm flesh of his sides until the bruise on his chest came into view. As Dean predicted, it had darkened to a nasty shade of purple. Dean rested a hand on the bruise and pressed gently, testing to see how tender the area was. Either Cas was intentionally trying to be brave, or it really wasn't as bad as it looked. Dean hoped it was the latter option.

Dean settled back down onto his side. Cas made as if to lower his shirt again, but Dean caught his hand and stopped him. He looked into Cas's eyes, then closed the distance between them and laid a gentle kiss on his lips. Cas raised his hand to the back of Dean's head and returned the kiss.

Dean chuckled against Cas's mouth. “What?” asked Cas, pulling back just enough to speak.

“Nothing, it's silly,” said Dean.

“Tell me,” Cas replied.

“It's just, do Russian mothers do that thing where, when you get a scrape or something, they 'kiss it and make it better'?” Dean didn't have many memories of his mother, but there had definitely been at least one time she'd put a bandage on his knee and then finished the first-aid care with a kiss.

Cas shook his head. “My mother, she put the cream on it and says to stop crying.”

“Well,” said Dean, “in the interest of continuing your East versus West education…”

Dean ducked his head and planted a kiss in the center of Cas's bruise. As he nuzzled into Cas's skin, he felt Cas's chest rumble as he laughed.

“It did not work,” said Cas. “Maybe it needs something… less motherly?”

Dean chuckled. “Purely in the interest of helping you to heal, then…” He trailed a couple more kisses off to the side, until he landed on an exposed nipple. Cas gasped. Encouraged by the response, Dean swept his tongue over the nipple before catching it gently between his teeth. Cas tried grabbing at Dean's hair with one hand, while the other went up to his own mouth to stifle a groan.

“Oh you like that, do you?” Dean teased. He flicked his tongue over Cas's nipple a few times, until Cas grabbed both sides of his face and dragged him up for a proper kiss. Dean could easily feel Cas's arousal starting to grow. He slid his hands down to Cas's hips for leverage, and started eagerly grinding against him. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped.

“What?” asked Cas, a hint of a whine in his voice.

“You hear that?”

“I hear nothing,” Cas said, trying to kiss him again.

Dean wiggled his body, not wanting to tease Cas by grinding up against him again, but needing to make a point.

“Bed always squeaks,” said Cas.

“Exactly,” said Dean.

Realization dawned on Cas's face. Any privacy they had up there on the third floor was contingent on not giving any of the other brothers of Maison d'Ange a reason to come investigating. And while a certain amount of squeaking was par for the course whenever someone settled into or rolled over in bed, they would surely arouse suspicions if they continued with their current activities. Dean briefly entertained the idea of putting the blanket on the floor and moving down there, but frankly, the old floor boards weren’t much quieter.

“I can go back to my own room, if you want,” Dean said.

Cas shook his head. “I do not want.”

“Then I'll stay,” Dean replied. “But,” he sighed. “We have to behave.”

“I think I have more experience with this than you do,” Cas teased.

Dean made a show of considering. “Yeah, probably,” he concluded.

“If we are just sleeping,” said Cas, taking off his glasses and putting them on the nightstand, “we need lights off.”

Dean rolled over with a groan and got up out of bed. “I'll get them,” he said, unnecessarily. Halfway to the light switch by the door, he paused and turned back. “Shit, but I have to get up early. I'm on Breakfast & Tea again this week.”

Cas shrugged, reaching to turn on the alarm clock. “I am housekeeper this week. I have to be awake early, too, to set out breakfast for house.”

Dean closed the door, flipped the light switch, and made his way back to the bed in the dark, groping around for the nearest bedpost. He felt his way up the bed, nearly tripped over his discarded boots in the process.

Cas chuckled. “You need to use my flashlight?”

“You could have mentioned that before I turned the lights off,” said Dean, sitting down to remove the remainder of his unnecessary clothing.

“Mm, apologies,” said Cas, reaching up to touch Dean's bare back as his shirt came off.

Dean took his jeans off and, after a moment's consideration, socks as well. Stripped of all but his boxers, he felt around until he found the edge of the top sheet and pulled it over himself as he settled in next to Cas. Feeling Cas's hands lazily trailing over his skin, and reaching under Cas's t-shirt to do the same, he couldn't help but feel – in spite of his sexual frustration – a tinge of contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * So clearly I have Opinions™ about different models of salvation, lol. But the point I wanted to make is just that there _are_ different models of salvation. Substitutionary atonement is _not_ the only option. So if you can't get on board with it, that's okay! It's pretty much all you ever hear about in the West, so most Western Christians and non-Christians alike assume that it is The Official Christian Doctrine. But it's not, and is in fact totally foreign to the entire Eastern Orthodox tradition.
>   * “Juraj's” card is real, and presented here without editing (except of course to change names). I'm sure there's some ethical questionability to reproducing his writing without his knowledge or consent, but it's one of those parts of my experience at the real “St. Chuck's” that just had to be shared. And it seemed even more wrong to go and change it, even for the sake of fictionalizing it, as if I could improve on what he'd already written.
>   * Having Cas laugh at the idea of real angels as flaming wheels covered in eyes wasn't my idea, but I can't remember who suggested it so I can't give proper credit. Sorry!
> 



	32. Week Five, Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * For info on Russian naming conventions, check out [this tumblr post](http://niedolia.tumblr.com/post/158793053134/psa-for-the-yoi-fandom-russian-names-how-to-use)
>   * Pronunciations:
>     * [Ty snoshayesh'sya s rtom kozla](https://translate.google.com/#ru/en/Ty%20snoshayesh'sya%20s%20rtom%20kozla)
> 


Dean awoke to the sound of rain hitting the roof. It was a peaceful sound, but surprisingly loud. Cas lay on his back, still asleep, snoring softly. Dean pressed a kiss to his shoulder and settled into the crook of his neck. He trailed a hand up Cas's shirt and rested it against the soft skin of his belly. Lying like that, listening to the rain and feeling Castiel breathe, he must have dozed off again because the next thing he was aware of was the rude sound of the alarm clock.

Dean groaned, and Cas mumbled something in Russian. How had Dean managed to get up so early every day last week? Oh, right – because last week, he hadn't had such a tempting reason to stay in bed, and spend all day– Yeah, that line of thinking wasn't going to help. And it wasn't possible in these squeaky beds, anyway, as they'd discovered last night.

Dean reached over and silenced the alarm clock. “C'mon, Cas,” he said, flopping back down and making no actual effort to “c'mon” himself. “Time to—” he yawned “—make the donuts.”

“I do not understand that reference,” Cas mumbled into Dean's hair.

With great effort, Dean pried himself away and managed to get his feet on the floor. “You could probably get away with another half hour of sleep,” Dean said, turning back to smooth Cas's bedhead. “An hour, even. No need to get up just cause I have to.”

Cas shook his head and sat up as much as he could in bed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he countered, “You need coffee. Is my job to make, this week.”

“Well aren't you an angel,” Dean said with a smile. He got to his feet and stooped to pick up his jeans and boots. He'd need those today. “I need to go get dressed.”

“Do you really need to?” asked Cas, stroking a hand down Dean's back appreciatively.

Dean chuckled. “I don't think just boxers meet the kitchen dress code.”

Castiel staggered to his feet. “Is shame,” he said. He embraced Dean from behind for a moment, before letting go so they could both go get dressed.

“See you downstairs,” said Dean.

When Dean had gotten changed into fresh clothes, and grabbed the umbrella he was now glad he'd thought to pack, he went to head down to the kitchen. He found the shirt and socks he'd left in Cas's room now unceremoniously dumped on the floor in front of his bedroom door. Dean smiled to himself. Fair enough. He stuffed the dirty clothes into his laundry bag and made his way downstairs.

Cas had the first pot of coffee brewing when Dean made it downstairs. Now he was loading three unopened boxes of milk into the mysterious, toaster-like appliance on the counter.

“What is that thing, anyway?” asked Dean.

“What, milk warmer?” Cas responded, pointing at the appliance. “Where did you think warm milk was from?”

“I try not to do any heavy thinking in the morning, before I've finished my coffee,” Dean said.

Cas chuckled. “Is heavy thinking to tell me how many plates to set for breakfast?” He was starting to count out plates onto the carrying tray, but apparently wasn't sure where to stop.

“Ah, you're killing me here!” said Dean. But he went to the room assignments list on the white board, and counted up how many spots were filled in. “Nineteen. Minus one, cause Juraj is still listed here. And minus another, since I'll be with the Breakfast & Tea crew. But plus one, cause Brother Nathanaël or Brother Gerhard is probably coming. So…” The simple mental math was rendered a little more difficult by the lack of caffeine in his bloodstream. “Eighteen.” Cas nodded, put a few more plates on his pile, and started counting out drinking bowls.

“It's probably the housekeeper's job to keep this list up-to-date, you know,” said Dean, as he picked up a pencil someone had left on the table and erased Juraj's name from the list. “Hey, are there any new guys this week?”

“I do not think so,” said Cas, but he added two more plates and bowls to his growing collection anyway, just to be safe. “I guess I will see at breakfast.”

“What's this?” Dean asked, picking up a piece of pottery that was sitting on the table, next to where he'd found the pencil.

Cas looked over to see what Dean was looking at. “Oil lamp,” he said. “From La Boutique, I think.”

“Yeah, I meant, what is it doing here?” The top of the lamp was grey with dust, but the rest of it was glazed in blue and green.

Cas shrugged. “I found yesterday, in back of cabinet, on top shelf,” he said, pointing to the armoire against the far wall. “I took out to clean, but forgot. I will do today, I think.”

“Weird,” said Dean. “I wonder what it's doing here. It doesn't look like it's ever been used.”

“No,” agreed Cas. “But there is oil and book of matches in cabinet, too. Also covered with dust. Someone wanted to use, but not recently.”

The coffee was finally done brewing. Cas grabbed an extra bowl and poured some into it. He walked over to where Dean was standing, and held the bowl out as an offering.

“Ah, Castiel, you absolute saint!” said Dean, accepting it.

Cas put on a mock pout. “Before, you say I am angel. Why I am demoted?”

“Because you're a smart-ass, that's why,” said Dean, stroking Cas's cheek with a crooked finger. Cas's pout turned into a smirk.

“Is strange now to hear you say 'Castiel,'” said Cas.

Dean was confused. “It's your name, isn't it?”

“Yes, but in Russia, when you are close enough to use familiar name, you do not use official name anymore. Is too formal for friends. Unless, maybe, if you are angry.”

“Well, Castiel,” Dean said, crowding Cas so he had to back up against the kitchen counter. He continued in a low voice. “I am very, very angry at your damn bed for being so loud.” Cas grinned and turned pink. Then Dean thought he heard something from the direction of the staircase, and quickly backed away. Damn. He wasn't used to being with guys outside of the bedroom like this. Whatever Dean had heard was apparently a false alarm, but there were so many ways they could get caught, besides the obvious. “We, uh, should probably get that stuff out to the tables.” Not helping Charlie with the bread delivery anymore (whoever had that job this week was on their own) gave Dean a little extra time, but he still had to get going soon.

“You do not have to stay, housekeeper is my job not yours,” said Cas, rifling through the cutlery on the drying rack to find enough spoons.

Dean shrugged. “You need both hands to carry that tray, and a third to hold an umbrella in this weather.” Cas couldn't argue with that, so he just hefted the tray up into his arms and made his way toward the door.

Dean did his best to hold his umbrella so it would keep both of them dry, but inevitably they got a little wet anyway. “Speaking of Russian names, what was that thing you said your sister called you? Something about a goat?” he asked as they walked.

“If she is feeling nice, she calls me 'Kostya' like rest of family. But if she wants to annoy me, she calls me 'Kozlik' – 'little goat.'” Cas sighed. “At least she did not choose 'Koshka,' even though sound is closer.”

“Why, what's that mean?” asked Dean.

“'Cat,'” explained Cas. “But specifically, 'girl cat.'”

They laid twenty place settings, then headed back to the kitchen for the rest of the breakfast supplies. Once everything was out that could be set out in advance, and the milk, electric kettles, and next round for the coffee maker were ready to go at a moment's notice, Dean checked his watch and saw that he was already going to be late. “Shit, I have to run,” he said. “See you later, little goat,” he called back over his shoulder as he made his way toward the door once again.

“I know where you sleep,” Cas threatened him.

“I know you do,” said Dean, with a wink.

Keeping the silence at La Cascade was a relatively simple task that morning, considering how few people bothered to come out in the rain. It wasn't the downpour it had been earlier this morning, but it was still more than Dean would voluntarily choose to be out during. His boots had a decent coating of mud by the time he made it to the lower gate. He didn't even want to think about how bad it must be on the dirt paths through the woods.

At least the metal drainage channels embedded into the dirt paths prevented them from becoming dangerously slick in the rain. They didn't save Dean's boots from becoming progressively muddier, though. He took the quickest route he could through the woods, ignoring the paths to the left and the right which formed gradual slopes down the hill, and instead taking the staircase that cut right down the middle of the loop.

As he walked, Dean wondered what the point of opening La Cascade for an hour in the mornings was anyway, when subtracting the half hour closing procedure left only a half hour for people to enjoy the surroundings. Right, he thought to himself wryly. If the brothers ask for your input on scheduling, be sure to mention that.

There were a few more signs calling for silence on the way down the hill, and a number of smaller side-paths branching off the main ones. One of them, Dean recalled from his initial EMF sweep, was the brothers' entrance from their side of the monastery grounds.

At the bottom of the staircase, Dean reached the sprawling field. The clearing, like the woods, was encircled by one continuous path. Dean passed the small pond with the waterfall on his right, and could see the large pond through a copse of trees on his left. Past the trees, he reached what he'd been looking for – the large wooden shrine.

The structure stood on a wooden platform which dominated its small lawn. There was a roof with a single, grey onion dome on top, and on the back wall there hung an icon of three angels sitting around a table. The side walls only came out halfway, and there was no front wall at all, save for the simple wooden pillars supporting the roof.

Several other people had already thought to seek shelter from the rain here, however, so Dean continued walking. The trees cleared away, and Dean could finally get a good look at the large pond. The surface rippled as raindrops hit it. Some sort of water birds floated peacefully, seemingly oblivious to the ill weather.

At roughly the pond's midpoint, Dean reached the bridge which crossed it and connected the near side of the path to the far side. He wandered a bit more, but was thankful when it was time to start closing up. He returned to the far side of the bridge, where Anna, Billie, and Ezekiel were waiting for him. “So, ready to do this?” he asked with mock enthusiasm. The others just nodded from beneath their own umbrellas. “Okay, who's gonna take which direction, then?”

They quickly decided that Ezekiel would go right, Billie would go left, and Anna would go straight ahead across the bridge. Dean went with Anna, seeing as it was the shortest path. They all ended up meeting again on the opposite side of the lowest loop, then rotated who would go in which direction for the middle loop. This time, Anna went right, Ezekiel went left, and Dean and Billie went straight up the staircase built into the side of the hill.

After locking the lower gate, they repeated the same pattern for the third and uppermost loop. Then they swept across the upper field, inviting the few groups of people braving the rain to proceed to the upper gate. It was actually a little early when Dean locked the upper gate, since there had been fewer people than usual to usher out. For their first time doing this, it had gone pretty smoothly.

“I cannot believe you still have cassette tape player,” Cas said with a laugh. “New iPod comes out this month! Upgrade!”

“Yeah, but could an iPod play all my old cassette tapes? I think not!” Dean replied. He was glad to be changed into dry clothes, and done with work for the day. The second opening of La Cascade had attracted more people, what with its longer hours and the rain having lightened to a drizzle. Dean was surprised by how many people had brought thin foam mats to sit or lounge on, which also served to protect against the wet grass. He'd still been serving tea when the shift change occurred, but it went fine without him. At least, no raves had broken out during the brief period without any playground monitors.

Now in the lull before supper time, he was in Cas's room, expanding Cas's knowledge of classic rock. They lay on their stomachs, side-by-side on the bed, each listening to one earbud as “Back in Black” by AC/DC played on Dean's tape player.

“Besides,” said Dean. “Can you make a mixtape on an iPod?”

“Yes, is called 'playlist,'” said Cas.

“Eh, not the same thing,” Dean rebutted. “If I had the right equipment with me, I'd make you a proper mixtape.” He smiled at Cas and gently tapped their heads together.

“Which I listen to on my new iPod?” Cas teased.

“See? What good is your fancy new iPod if it can't even play a mixtape?”

“What good is rusty old tape player if it can't play MP3?” Cas stuck out his tongue.

“Hey, don't stick that out unless you plan to use it,” said Dean. Cas quickly leaned in and licked Dean's cheek. “Not what I meant!” exclaimed Dean, wiping his cheek off.

“Do not ask for something unless you know what you are asking for,” Cas said with a chuckle.

“That is… not what I was asking for, you sweet innocent little thing,” said Dean.

“I am less innocent than you think,” Cas protested. “We have internet in Russia, you know. Just because I have not done things does not mean that I do not know what they are.”

“Browsing internet porn, eh? You sinner!” Dean regretted his choice of words as soon as he voiced them. This was a guy who actually cared about being a “sinner.” “I mean, uh…”

“I know what you mean,” said Cas with a tight smile. “Is not just porn, though. Is chat rooms, forums, places people who are… different… can talk without anyone knowing who they are. I never participate, but sometimes I read. And then I delete browser history and swear never to do again.” He sighed. “And then next month, I do again.”

Dean stroked Cas's back. “You shouldn't have to feel guilty. It's just… who you are.”

“I am starting to believe this.” Cas gave a weak smile.

Dean's stomach gave an audible growl. “Sorry,” he said. “How long until dinner?”

Cas checked his watch. “Not so long. We can go downstairs, if you want.”

“Mm, not yet,” said Dean, wrapping his arm around Cas's waist and pulling him in to nuzzle his neck. A thought occurred to him. “Hey Cas, do you guys have peanut butter and jell– jam sandwiches in Russia?”

Cas looked confused and skeptical at the same time. “What, in same sandwich? We do not eat peanut butter, with or without jam. I know what is, from movies, but never have had.” He finished with a shrug.

“You Europeans!” said Dean. “All of the other guys I asked said the same thing! You don't know what you're missing!”

“You have pirozhki? Pelmeni s smetanoy? Maybe you do not know what you are missing!”

“…I have no clue what those are,” admitted Dean.

“Pirozhki is little pies filled with meat, or sometimes other things,” Cas explained. “Pelmeni s smetanoy means meat dumplings with sour cream. These are typical Russian food.”

“Little pies?” asked Dean. “Now that, I’ve gotta try! But… meat pies, and pasta filled with meat?” Cas nodded. “So what you're saying is, you like to eat the meat?” Dean asked, with a lecherous grin. “You like feeling it in your mouth? Like swallowing the creamy, white–”

Cas kicked Dean in the shin. “Ty snoshayesh'sya s rtom kozla.” Dean blinked at Cas. “You breed with mouth of goat,” Cas translated. Dean blinked again. “Eh, is funnier in Russian,” Cas conceded.

A wicked smile appeared on Dean's face. “I could 'breed' with the mouth of a 'little kozlik,'” he said, brushing Cas's lower lip with his thumb.

“'Kozlik' already includes the 'little,'” Cas corrected.

“Smartass,” Dean replied, still looking at Cas's lips. He really wanted to kiss them, so he leaned in and did. Cas rolled onto his side to return the kiss more comfortably, and Dean did the same. Dean inched over to close the space between them. He slotted a leg between Cas's and rolled them further over so he could be on top and– accidentally pushed Cas halfway off the bed. Damn this tiny twin-size mattress, Dean thought. Cas caught himself from falling all the way by flinging out an arm and a leg just in time to awkwardly lower himself the rest of the way instead of landing with a thud. “Shit, Cas, I'm sorry,” Dean said.

“You should be,” Cas said with a smile. “You are horrible.”

Dean held out a hand to help Cas back up onto the bed, and noticed a book sitting on the floor. It didn't look like the one Cas had been reading last night, though. “What's the book?” he asked.

“What, you have not seen Bible before?” asked Cas, incredulously.

“Well, not one in Russian,” Dean responded a little defensively.

Cas just shrugged. “I was reading this morning, after breakfast.”

“What about, hellfire and brimstone?” asked Dean.

Cas blushed. “Not exactly.”

“Well now you have to tell me,” said Dean.

“Is, uh, Song of Solomon,” Cas confessed. He turned his head to hide his deepening blush.

Dean was only vaguely familiar with it as a book of romantic poetry, but Cas's reaction confirmed that he'd hit on something juicy. “Oh yeah? What part?”

“What, you want me to translate?”

“Sure, why not? I want to know what's making you turn so pink,” Dean teased.

Cas picked the Bible up off the floor, read over the passage silently at first, and then gave it his best attempt at a translation.

“Set me as seal on your heart, as seal on your arm, because love is strong as death, its heat fierce as grave. It burns with bright fire, is like raging flame.

“Much water does not quench love, and rivers do not wash it away. If someone gave wealth of his house for love, he would be rejected with contempt.”

He looked up at Dean to see his reaction.

Dean's breath caught in his chest at the vulnerable look on Cas's face. For a moment, he couldn't say anything. Then he managed, “You are blushing so hard right now! Your face is completely red, isn't it!”

“Shut up, Dean,” said Cas. He reached over to rest his hand on Dean's cheek. When it looked like Dean was about to make another comment, Cas shut him up with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Yeah, “You breed with the mouth of a goat” isn't actually funnier in Russian. It's hard as fuck to translate into Russian. My beta had a hell of a time with that one. He asked an entire Facebook group of FSU (former Soviet Union) immigrants how to translate it, and they all had different suggestions. He says: “I guess Russians aren't naturally goat-fuckers. You can quote me on that!”
>   * Soooooo I kinda fudged the Russian-to-English Bible translation. Because both Russian translations I found say “a ring on your finger” instead of “a seal on your arm.” But for destiel purposes, the “seal on your arm” translation is kind of the whole point!
> 



	33. Week Five, Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Dans nos obscurités](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KX5tKRkJ8HY) (French)
>     * [Nothing can ever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CQInYSKIR_c)
>     * [De noche](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yC71CD9P7h4) (Spanish)
> 


It had rained again overnight, but it was down to a light misting by the afternoon. Dean didn't even need an umbrella. He had opened the gates to La Cascade for the second time that day, and now had some time to kill before the second half of Breakfast & Tea duty started. He had to walk all the way across the grounds to reach the big kitchen, so he'd left La Cascade with plenty of time to spare.

As he passed Hoeseog, he noticed a spilled cup of chocolate pudding on the edge of one of the large planters. A couple feet away, there sat a snail. Come to think of it, there had been a lot of snails around for the past couple of days. The rain allowed them to venture further from water without drying out. What do snails eat, Dean wondered. Was that snail heading toward the pudding for a feast? It didn't seem to be moving, but then again, snails were slow anyway. Dean shrugged and stood up from where he'd crouched to get a closer look.

As he stretched out his back, Dean saw Charlie and Dorothy near the covered patio. “Hey ladies,” he called out as he approached.

“Hi Dean!” Charlie responded, with a wave. It looked like she was holding back laughter about something. “Looks like someone has an extra spring in his step,” she said when Dean got closer.

“Who, me?” asked Dean. “It's, uh, probably cause of this nifty walking stick,” he explained, holding the stick out so the girls could see it. Alfie had given it to Dean that morning, for the hikes up and down the hill at La Cascade.

“That's nice,” said Charlie, “but some stick wouldn't make you look like that.”

“Well maybe some 'stick' would,” Dorothy piped up.

“Dorothy!” Charlie exclaimed, elbowing her in the ribs.

“You know you were thinking it, doll,” Dorothy replied, reaching over and tickling Charlie's side. Charlie squealed.

“Hey, hey, there is no stick!” said Dean. “Except, uh, this one,” he said, putting the walking stick down on the bench, out of the way, and taking a seat next to Charlie.

“Sure, sure,” said Charlie. “Well even if there's no 'stick' involved, there's still something going on. Cause there is definitely a sparkle in your eye that wasn't there last time. And I want to know who put it there.”

“What? No, that's just cause last time was at buttfuck o'clock in the morning to unload bread, before my coffee kicked in,” Dean protested.

“So now there's buttfucking involved,” Dorothy chimed in.

“No, there is no–” he lowered his volume. “–buttfucking. At all.”

“Well you're going to have to tell us what is going on, or we're going to just keep on guessing. And it's going to keep getting worse,” Charlie threatened.

Dean hung his head. “You are a terrible friend.”

“Mm, she's the worst,” agreed Dorothy, affectionately brushing a loose lock of hair out of Charlie's face.

Dean sighed. He tried to think of some way out of this, and came up empty. “I kissed someone,” he said quickly and quietly.

“What was that?” Dorothy leaned in and cupped a hand to her ear.

“I said…” He took a deep breath to steel his nerves. “I kissed someone.” He could feel his cheeks burning.

“And?” asked Charlie, matching Dean's soft, conspiratorial tone.

“And what?” Dean fired back.

“When? Where? Who?”

“What is this, a game of Clue?” asked Dean. “It was Professor Plum, in the garden, with the tonsil hockey!”

“So you're saying it was more than a peck, then,” said Dorothy.

“Which garden?” asked Charlie.

Dean put his head in his hands. “You two are killing me.”

“Only cause we love you,” said Charlie, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“Speak for yourself, Red,” Dorothy quipped. “I'm just in it for his hilarious reactions.”

“There's a garden behind our house,” Dean said in response to Charlie's most recent question.

“Then it's someone else from Maison d'Ange!” Charlie said, triumphant at having obtained a little more information. “Is it Cas? It's Cas, isn't it?”

“Keep your voice down!” Dean hissed.

Charlie's eyes went wide. “I knew it! I knew there was something going on between you two!”

“Well don't tell the whole world,” said Dean, looking around in a paranoid way.

“So do you think it's going to happen again?” Charlie asked, just above a whisper. Dean was suddenly very interested in his thumbnail. “It already has!” she declared. She squealed, stamped her feet excitedly, and pulled Dean and Dorothy in close. “Where, in the garden again? No, not with how much rain there's been. Just promise me that you'll be careful, okay? I want all my gay children to stay safe!”

“Aren't I older than you, pipsqueak?” said Dean. Charlie just stuck her tongue out at him.

The conversation quickly devolved into complaining about the weather and all the difficulties it caused.

“I know there's been a drought and we need the rain,” Charlie said with a sigh, “but I'm running out of clean clothes! How is laundry supposed to dry like this?”

“Score one for American wastefulness,” Dean said with a cheeky grin.

The rain stayed light through the afternoon and into the evening. Dean didn't bother to bring his umbrella with him when he accompanied Cas up the hill to evening prayers. Cas decided to bring his, though, just in case. And that turned out to be a good idea, as the sound of rain hitting the roof became apparent midway through prayers.

It started during the song “Dans nos obscurités, allume le feu qui ne s'éteint jamais, qui ne s'éteint jamais.”

Then, the pitter-patter of rain accompanied the scripture reading for the evening, from the letter to the Ephesians, about putting on “the whole armor of God” to withstand the forces of evil. “Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness. As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”

The next song was decidedly easier than most for Dean, given that it was in English. “Nothing can ever come between us and the love of God, the love of God revealed to us in Christ Jesus.”

By the time two brothers got up to read the spoken prayer for the night, the rain outside was coming down in torrents. “Holy Spirit,” the second brother read in English, “in you we are offered a way of discovering this amazing reality: God does not wish suffering or distress for people, he never creates fear or anguish in us. God can only love us.”

The brothers stood up and left during “De noche iremos, de noche que para encontrar la fuente, sólo la sed nos alumbra, sólo la sed nos alumbra.” As usual, a good portion of the congregation got up when the brothers did, but noticeably fewer than usual. And when Dean and Cas made their way outside, they saw that many of those who'd left the church were still there, huddling under the roof's overhang.

“You were right,” said Dean, as the two of them headed away from the growing din. “Bringing an umbrella was a good idea.”

“If I was better person,” said Cas, “maybe I would spend rest of evening offering to bring people back to their tents, or wherever they are staying.”

“You're bringing me back to where we're staying,” Dean noted. “Doesn't that count?”

“Only because I am going there too. Otherwise, I would leave you standing alone in rain,” Cas said in a mock serious tone.

“Asshole,” Dean said with a chuckle, throwing an arm around Cas's shoulders for a brief, awkward, moving side-hug.

“Maison d'Ange,” Dean said to the Night Hospitality team stationed just past Kuća, huddling under their rain ponchos and umbrellas. “Poor bastards,” he said to Cas once they'd passed the check-point. “Are they even necessary tonight? Who's gonna be out wreaking havoc in this weather?”

“We could,” said Cas. In the fading twilight, Dean could see a devious smile.

“Oh yeah? What havoc did you have in mind?”

“I do not know,” said Cas, shrugging. “I am just saying.” They passed Maison d'Esprit, then the big tilleul tree. Cas paused, which forced Dean to stop too so he wouldn't get soaked outside the umbrella's small circle of protection. “I wonder if anyone is in old church tonight,” Cas said, looking past Dean to the old stone building.

“They'd have to be nuts,” said Dean.

“Let's check,” said Cas, before taking off so suddenly Dean had to scramble to stay under the umbrella. It was a short walk to the stone wall surrounding the church. The grave markers in the yard glistened in the rain. Cas led the way past them, to the church itself. The big wooden door creaked as he opened it. Cas shook out his umbrella, closed it, and left it in a corner of the vestibule before opening the inner door to the church proper.

The lights were on, but the few rows of benches stood empty. Cas wandered aimlessly up the center aisle, looking around at the sparse decorations. Small windows were visible high up, near the ceiling, but no sunlight came in at this hour. The electric lights were dim, giving an almost candlelight-like atmosphere. On each side wall there stood two stone arches, and under each arch, in the shallow alcove it formed, stood another bench. A larger arch up front separated the nave from the chancel, where a tiny altar stood draped in green cloth. There was a small crucifix on the wall to one side of the chancel, and a table with an icon of Jesus, a candle, and a covered tabernacle on the other.

Cas curved around the front of the main seating area, and came back down the side aisle to where Dean still stood next to the entrance. “Nobody is here,” Cas observed, as if that wasn't perfectly obvious from where Dean was.

“Nobody but us is damn fool enough to go out of their way when it's raining this hard,” Dean replied. The thick stone walls muffled the sound of the rain, but it was still very audible. Dean still wondering why Cas had wanted to come in here in the first place. “And speaking of damn fools, what exactly are we doing here? We should get back to–” Dean was cut off when Cas placed his hand, gently but firmly, over Dean's mouth.

“Maybe is lucky for us,” Cas said quietly, a smile forming on his lips. He reached his other hand out and stroked it down Dean's chest, resting it at his waist. Dean's eyes went wide. “Like you say, nobody else is foolish enough to come here tonight.” He looked into Dean's eyes, as if searching for permission. Dean couldn't hold back the grin that crept across his face, still covered by Cas's hand. Slowly, he nodded.

Without another word, Cas grabbed Dean's belt on either side and pulled him further away from the door before pushing him – hard – against the back wall. The display of dominance sent a thrill up Dean's spine. Then Cas paused, as if unsure what to do next, so Dean put one hand on Cas's shoulder and the other on the back of his neck to gently pull him in for a kiss. He was happy to let Cas take as much control as he wanted, but given Cas's admitted inexperience, he was also more than willing to provide a little guidance.

With that encouragement, though, it turned out Cas didn't need much guidance after all. He moved slowly but deliberately, sliding his hands under Dean's shirt while they kissed. One hand slid around to the small of Dean's back, while the other moved up to tease at his nipple. Dean squirmed a little under Cas's touch, which earned him another shove against the wall. Dean felt his cock twitch in his jeans, which evidently Cas did too judging by his gasp and the smile Dean could feel against his lips.

Dean stroked gently at the nape of Cas's neck, eager to see what he would do next. Cas did not disappoint. He trailed his fingers back down from Dean's chest, pausing at the waistband of his jeans, before continuing down to palm Dean's cock through the denim fabric. It gave another jump at the sudden pressure.

“Keep that up,” said Dean, rubbing up against Cas's hand. “See what happens.”

“I know what happens,” said Cas, giving a squinty-eyed look in response to Dean's smart-ass comment.

“Right, you and your internet porn,” Dean teased.

“Stop talking, Dean,” Cas ordered. He removed his hand from Dean's crotch and brought it up to grasp at his hair. “Use your mouth for something better.” With a tug, he directed Dean's face into the crook of his neck, where Dean eagerly obliged by kissing and licking and nipping at the delicate skin. As Cas threw his head back to enjoy the attention, he took a couple of small steps in place, rearranging his legs to slot one in between Dean's.

As Dean scraped his teeth across a particularly sensitive spot he'd found, Cas groaned and rolled his hips against him. The sound wasn't loud, but the echoey stone walls amplified it. Hearing and feeling Cas like that went right to Dean's crotch, and he rolled his own hips in response, seeking friction against Cas's body. After only a few thrusts, though, Cas pulled Dean's head up and backed up enough to look at him. Even with what they'd just been doing, Dean was surprised by how intense a look of lust he saw on Cas's face.

Without looking away, Cas found both of Dean's hands and intertwined their fingers. Then he pinned Dean's hands to the wall on either side of his head, and leaned in slowly to kiss him again. He teased him, brushing his lips lightly over Dean's before pulling away again, forcing Dean to chase after him while holding his hands firmly pinned. Then he leaned in again to give Dean the kiss he wanted, only to suddenly pull away again after a second or two.

Dean tested Cas's strength, pushing back against his hands lightly, but Cas held firm. So Dean pushed a little harder, then a little more, getting a bigger thrill each time Cas kept him pinned. Cas seemed to be getting a rush from the little power game as well. The more Dean struggled, the tighter he held on to his hands and the harder he kissed him.

Cas brought Dean's hands up above his head so he could pin both with just one of his. He wedged one leg back between Dean's to give him something to thrust against, then started exploring for sensitive spots with his mouth and free hand. He only had access to so much territory in their present position, but he managed to elicit a gasp when he stroked Dean's nipple just so, and a bonafide shiver from licking a spot he found just behind Dean's ear.

By now, Dean was rutting against Cas in earnest, eyes closed. It was apparent how much he was enjoying Cas's ministrations. Finally, Cas brought his free hand back down to Dean's crotch and rubbed him through his jeans again. “Cas,” Dean groaned at his touch.

“You want me to do something about this?” Cas asked.

Dean bit his lip and nodded. “You can do whatever you want, baby.”

Cas released Dean's hands, which immediately went to stroke Cas's hair as Dean leaned his forehead against Cas's. Cas tugged at Dean's belt, quickly undoing it before unbuttoning his jeans. Dean had just enough presence of mind to grab his wrist. “You don't…” he started, with great effort. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to, I promise I'll–”

“I want to,” Cas cut him off, lowering Dean's zipper.

“Oh thank god,” Dean exclaimed, resting his head back against the wall.

Cas lowered himself to the floor, kneeling in front of Dean, before grabbing hold of the waistband of Dean's boxers. He paused for a moment, then lowered the boxers and jeans until Dean's cock sprang free.

Dean could feel Cas's warm breath before his fingers slowly traced their way down his length, then wrapped around in a loose fist. Cas leaned in, paused again, then hesitantly licked along the underside of the head. Dean moaned in pleasure, which seemed to embolden Cas. He took the entire head into his mouth and explored it with his tongue, before testing to see how far down he could go. It wasn't particularly far, but of course Dean wasn't surprised by that. Nobody deep-throats on their first try.

Cas continued a slow, exploratory approach for a little while, testing to see what elicited a response, before settling into a basic rhythm with his mouth and his hand. Dean closed his eyes, feeling the difference between the cold, hard stone behind him and the warm, soft mouth on his cock. The contrast heightened each sensation, the firm grip of Cas's hand and the insistent flicks of his tongue. Dean reached down to stroke Cas's soft hair, and while he was careful not to overwhelm Cas on his first time, he couldn't resist swaying his hips minutely with each stroke.

“Oh god, baby, that's it,” Dean panted as he started to feel himself getting close. Encouraged, Cas moved faster, licking and sucking the head while stroking the shaft with his hand. Before too long, Dean felt himself about to come. “Cas, baby, I'm gonna–” He expected Cas to pull away, but instead he took Dean as deep as he could. Dean cried out and braced himself against the wall as he came. He could feel every time Cas swallowed, trying but failing to take Dean's entire load. As Dean finished and was trying to catch his breath, he saw Cas looking up at him with his come trickling out of his mouth. It was one of the most gorgeous things Dean had ever seen.

Cas pulled the hem of his shirt up to wipe off his mouth, drawing Dean's attention to the smooth skin of his abdomen – and the visible bulge in his own pants. Dean offered a hand to help Cas to his feet, and kissed him once he was standing again. He could taste his own bitter flavor on Cas's lips. “Gimme a sec,” said Dean, tucking himself back in and refastening his jeans and belt. “And we'll see what I can do for you.”

Suddenly, Cas grabbed Dean's wrist and dragged him to the nearest bench. He sat down, pulling Dean down with him, bowed his head, and pulled the prayer rope off his wrist.

Oh. Crap. Dean did not know how to handle a Big Gay Freakout. Why did he let this happen? And in a church of all places! Fuck, Cas was probably panicking that he'd turned a House of God into a den of iniquity, or something, and–

The main door opened, and a little old lady toddled in with a cane. She made the sign of the cross, went to a bench on the other side of the main aisle, and bowed her head. Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Cas looked over at him with an apologetic smile. After a couple minutes, Dean's heart rate and Cas's boner had both gone down enough for them to make their exit.

“Oh my god,” said Dean, once they were safely outside. “One, that was amazing. I can't wait to repay the favor. And two, I can't believe we just barely got away with that! How did you know?”

“I heard outer door open,” said Cas. “It creaks.”

“I thought you were freaking out on me,” said Dean. “About how you'd just fallen from grace or something.”

Cas was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I have fallen,” he said. “But… maybe I do not care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Dean won't remember to ask Cas about the languages that use Cyrillic, btw. But they're Russian, Ukrainian, and [Church Slavonic](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_Slavonic_language).
>   * So when I was at “St. Chuck's,” I actually did stop inside the old church during a downpour to see if anyone would be there. To my surprise, there were plenty of people there. Wtf, why? Seriously, the rain was ridiculous! I was so disappointed that Dean and Cas wouldn't be able to, ahem, “take refuge” there. Then I remembered, duh, I'm the author! If I say the church is empty, then the church is empty! So there ya go – the church was empty. And aren't we all glad for that!
> 



	34. Week Five, Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Photos:
>     * [Rainbow over the church](https://i.imgur.com/DUzMMBS.jpg) (and [another angle](https://i.imgur.com/u9Jm4gu.jpg), cause why not)
> 


“It's Helmut,” Dean said, the moment he and Bobby were alone.

“Come again?” said Bobby.

Dean tried to summarize the line of reasoning which had led him to this conclusion. “It's the first thing that popped into my head when I woke up this morning.” In fact, it had been the second thing that popped into his head. The first thing had been how good Cas smelled. But he wasn't about to tell Bobby that part. “Last night, at evening prayers, there was some scripture reading about the 'helmet of salvation' and I dunno, it must have been mulling around in my brain, cause it jogged loose a memory from my first week here. Helmut's 'Reward – Lost Hat' flyer on the bulletin board, in the patio where the field people eat. With a name like that, he's gotta be German. And the Alp? The German night hag? It always wears a hat!”

Bobby looked like he was weighing the possibilities. “Sounds as plausible as any other lead we've got, but do you have any actual proof?”

“No, I mean, not definite proof. But I'm telling you, I've got a good feeling about this,” said Dean. “Remember the week there was no attack? I'm pretty sure that was the week Helmut's hat was missing! What if it, I dunno, can't use its powers without its hat?”

So the two of them spent the next couple of hours (with Dean taking a break mid-way through to unlock the gates to La Cascade) looking up every reference they could find about Alps.

“So it preferentially attacks women,” said Bobby. “Which does fit with the general pattern we've been seeing. And it looks like a normal human during the day, which works with your theory that it's passing itself off as a member of the visitor community.”

“It can go invisible, which is friggin' fantastic in terms of trying to find the damn thing,” said Dean. “And it can shape-shift into a cat, a pig, a dog, a snake, or a small white butterfly, but… that's strange, somehow it'll always have its hat, even when it's shape-shifted.” Dean looked up and slammed the book down onto his lap. “That friggin' cat that's been practically stalking me! Hester said it looked like it was wearing the Pope's hat!”

“Wouldn't the Pope's hat be awfully big on a cat?” asked Bobby.

“Who's the smart-ass now?” asked Dean, shooting him an unamused look. Bobby just chuckled.

“And the lore does say it'll offer a reward if its hat goes missing, which fits with the flyer you saw.”

“Plus, shit,” said Dean. “I saw that Wandergeselle guy by the Lost and Found, looking damn happy to have his hat back. And damn, I'd have to see that schedule of the attacks you've been keeping, but I'm pretty sure there was an attack that very night!”

Bobby started rifling through the papers on his desk to find his record of the attacks while he asked, “What the hell is a 'Wandergeselle'?” Dean briefly explained what Charlie had told him about wandering German tradesmen. “Huh,” replied Bobby. “You learn something new every day. Here it is,” he continued, handing Dean the schedule of attacks. As Dean looked it over, Bobby looked at the notes he'd taken. “Alps are apparently always men, which fits with your Wandergeselle theory. Did you happen to notice a unibrow when you saw him?”

Dean looked up from the schedule, his mouth agape. “Yes. And also, the dates fit.”

“Well, I'm convinced,” said Bobby. “Maybe that scripture reading last night was God helping us out a bit. The question remains, though, what the hell do we do about it? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the lore I found said that an Alp is 'all but impossible to kill.'”

“Maybe by old-fashioned means, but let me borrow that chainsaw I saw at Caerwys and we'll see who's 'impossible to kill.'”

“You've been watching too many movies, boy,” said Bobby. “Yeah you'd probably do some damage, but for all we know, this thing might be able to heal itself from non-lethal wounds. And you'd probably damage the chainsaw in the process.”

“Well, what about trying to steal its hat? Or destroy it? That seems to tame it,” Dean said, waving the attack schedule in the air.

“For how long, though?” said Bobby. “The lore says it'll stop at nothing to get its hat back. It might get downright violent if deprived of it for too long. And even if for some reason it can't attack at night without its hat, one of the books I was reading says the Alp has an evil eye which lets it do all sorts of other nasty things to its victims. We might end up making things worse.”

Dean sighed. “Then the only thing I have is one more useless way to ward it off – we just need to somehow convince everyone to plug up the keyholes in their bedroom doors, to keep it out.”

“I did find one thing that could be useful,” said Bobby. “Apparently, its evil eye? If you destroy that, you 'destroy its malicious intentions.'”

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Dean. “It goes on its merry way, but doesn't hurt anyone anymore?”

“The hell if I know,” said Bobby. “But it's the best lead we've got so far.”

Dean checked his watch. “Oh crap, I'm late to lock up La Cascade again.”

“If anyone gives you shit, I'll take the blame,” said Bobby.

“Thanks Bobby, knew you were good for something!”

“Shut it, ya idjit.”

Midday found Dean outside the church. The rain was still ongoing, but just as a gentle mist, not nearly enough to require an umbrella. Before going inside, Dean saw Charlie and Dorothy lingering outside. “I'll catch up,” he told Cas and Alfie, then went over to say hi to the girls.

“Hey, Dean!” said Charlie when she saw him making his way over through the dwindling crowd. “Hi, Dean's friends!” Dean looked over his shoulder and saw that, instead of going on without him, Cas and Alfie had followed him over to the back of the church. They were waving at Charlie and Dorothy, and, as Dean could now see, Jo as well.

“You should probably get inside if you don't want to miss the start of prayers,” said Dean.

Alfie shrugged. “We're definitely too late to find a spot in the auxiliaires' section, so what's the harm in a few more minutes?”

“Hey, it's like the whole family's here,” Charlie announced.

“Family?” asked Cas.

“You know,” said Charlie, leaning in conspiratorially. “ _Family_.”

Cas's eyes went wide. “It's cool, Cas,” Dean added quickly. “Charlie's cool. She wouldn't tell anyone who isn't also… 'family.'” He gave Cas a reassuring clasp on the shoulder.

“Oh my god, I'm so sorry!” exclaimed Charlie. “I can't keep track of who knows about who else!”

“What did you tell…” Cas turned to Dean.

“Nothing, honest! She's just got a sixth sense for it. She figured me out, too.”

“Heh, I should have known,” said Alfie, shooting Dean a look. “No one asks about queer liberation theology unless they want an argument, or they’re personally invested in the subject.”

“Hey, I'm not… I like… Well, both, I guess,” said Dean, a little defensively.

“So do I, what's your point?” asked Jo. Dean paused to think. He didn't really have a point. He shrugged.

“Did you guys see the rainbow on your way up here?” asked Dorothy. Alfie nodded, while Cas and Dean shook their heads. “Come on, you have to.” So the six of them ended up crossing the street to get to a better vantage point. Sure enough, a rainbow was clearly visible right over the church. Dean squinted. It was faint, but there was even a double rainbow above it.

“Did you know there was a rainbow over the church after the first time prayers were held here?” said Alfie.

“How do you know this?” asked Jo.

Alfie shrugged. “It's in 'The Community of St. Charles: A History.' Brother Raoul thought the new church was too big, but when he saw the rainbow he took it as a sign that the church was an ark that would be filled. And seeing as they've had to expand it several times since then, boy was he right!”

“What does this rainbow mean, then?” asked Charlie.

“Maybe that God knows we are here,” said Cas, gesturing to the six of them. “And he is saying hello.”

“So what's the deal?” asked Dean. “They put all of us into Maison d'Ange and Baptême?”

Charlie giggled. “No, there are at least a couple in Vierge and d'Esprit, too.”

“You really do know all of us!” exclaimed Jo. “So where are those losers now?”

“Probably at prayers,” answered Dorothy. “Like we're supposed to be.”

“Ah, what's one missed service?” Dean teased. By now, the sound of singing was wafting out of the church. “Except maybe for Brother Alfie here,” Dean said, wagging his finger playfully. “Naughty, naughty!”

“On occasion, but that's a whole 'nother topic.”

Dean felt like, had he been drinking something, he would have just done a spit-take. “Did you just…” Charlie and Jo looked like they were holding back laughter.

“Well, what's that thing Oscar Wilde said?” said Alfie. “'Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future.'” A wide grin appeared on his face. “He also said, 'Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling.'”

“And remember,” Dorothy deadpanned. “If you don't sin, Jesus died for nothing.”

Dean and the others never made it to midday prayers, having spent the whole time talking and laughing and keeping an eye out for the Field Hospitality patrollers (and a certain cat or Wandergeselle). He did, however, end up going along to evening prayers. Dean and Cas nodded a farewell to Alfie as they got up to leave.

Back at Maison d'Ange, there was the typical unstructured evening time. Some guys were up in their rooms. Some were hanging out down in the common room. It was unusually warm for the time of day, thanks to the humidity. Vitalik was getting cleaning supplies from the hall closet, to tackle his chore of the week. Dean took the opportunity to do some basic tidying up in his room. He'd have thought it would stay cleaner, given that he wasn't actually sleeping there, but if anything it was messier given that he'd had less incentive to keep it neat.

“Why they are putting feet together?” Cas asked, a puzzled look on his face. He was lounging on Dean's bed (finally made again, after the last time Dean had slept there), flipping through the copy of _Cat's Cradle_ that Dean had left on the desk.

Dean stuffed a pair of dirty boxers into his laundry bag. “Dude, spoilers! I'm not up to that part yet! So, uh, I have no freaking clue. Sounds weird,” he replied.

After tidying up his room and “helping” (distracting) Cas with his, the two of them headed back downstairs to see who was in the common room. The most noteworthy thing in the room wasn't who was there, however, but what was on the table. Between the baskets of leftover bread, fruit, and cookies, there stood a handle of whiskey.

“Woah, who brought the Jack?” asked Dean.

“Some field person,” said Ash, with a grin. “We found it 'hidden' behind the shrine near the church, during Field Hospitality.”

“And you just took it?” asked Dean.

“Well it's not allowed on the field!” Ash's grin got larger.

“The rules are to take it to Māja,” said Kevin, sternly. “Was Māja closed? I think maybe Māja was closed.” His affected sternness gave way to a grin, as well.

“Well if it's not allowed, there's only one thing to do,” said Dean, taking a seat at the table. He slapped the table with his hand. “Drink the evidence!”

“I second that motion,” said Adam.

“The motion passes!” declared Alfie.

Within moments, Dean, Cas, Ash, Kevin, Alfie, Adam, Vitalik, and Mathieu were seated around the table, and Ash was twisting the cap off the bottle.

“Wait, if we're going to drink that, we need something to help soak it up,” said Alfie. He got up, pulled a large bowl from the cabinet and set about making some St. Chuck's Müesli out of oats, pears, chocolate sticks, and milk.

Ash took a big swig of whiskey, and passed the bottle to Mathieu. The bottle made a circle around the table, then just kept circulating. Soon, the bowls of müesli were passed around too and, wisely, no one refused.

“Hey, let's play the Naughty Game,” said Adam, after a few minutes of idle chit-chat.

“What game?” asked Mathieu.

“The Naughty Game,” Adam repeated. You take the number of people you've slept with, and multiply it by the largest age difference between you and someone you've slept with. Whoever has the highest number wins.”

“What if there's no age difference?” asked Vitalik.

“That counts as one,” said Adam.

A few of the guys around the table started counting on their fingers. Dean hardly even knew where to start. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Alfie reaching for something on the bookshelf.

“Look,” said Ash. “He has to write down names to remember them all!”

Sure enough, Alfie started scribbling, then paused to think, then scribbled some more. “Does it count,” he started, “ if it's a three-way, but you technically only slept with one of them?”

Dean goggled. “Every saint has a past,” indeed.

“I'd still count them both,” said Adam.

Another moment passed. “Does it count if– wait, never mind,” said Alfie. After thinking some more and scribbling some more, he spoke up again. “How about if–”

“If you have to ask, the answer is yes!” said Adam.

Finally, everyone was ready to share their numbers.

“Two,” said Kevin.

“Twenty-four,” said Adam.

“Two hundred twenty-five,” said Alfie, proudly.

Vitalik went next. “Six.”

Then Ash. “Forty-five.”

Mathieu looked down as he confessed, “Zero.”

It was Dean's turn. “I don't know, I lost count to be honest. Something over three hundred, though.”

Cas went last. He took a big gulp from the bottle of whiskey. “Maybe one,” he said, blushing. Dean felt an odd sort of pride at being that one, and being the only one who knew that. But he could tell that Cas was intentionally avoiding looking at him, presumably afraid of giving something away.

“So, Dean wins!” announced Adam.

“Man, I really thought I had that in the bag,” said Alfie. “Well played, sir.” He extended his hand to Dean, and they shook.

“How is your number so high?” Kevin added.

“Uh, hard to say, exactly. Yeah. Sex has always felt, I don't know, good. You know? I mean, really, really good.” Geez Dean, he thought to himself. No shit. These kiddies must be in awe of your sex-god wisdom. “Uh… But, uh… Sometimes, it just makes you feel bad, you know? You're drunk. You shack up. Then it's the whole morning thing. You know. 'Hey, that was fun.' And then, 'adios,' you know? Always the 'adios'…” He paused. What was going to happen when this hunt was over? When he went back to the States, and Cas went back to Russia to become a priest? He pushed the thought out of his mind. “But, you know, when you get down to it, what's the big deal, right? I mean, sure, there's the touching and the feeling all of each other, my hands everywhere, tracing every inch of their body, the two of us moving together, pressing and pulling… Grinding… Then you hit that sweet spot, and everything just builds and builds and builds until it all just…” He made an explosion sound. “Yeah. Uh… But the whole thing can get just a little too, uh… sticky. So, uh, play safe kids. Use condoms.”

There was silence in the common room. He hazarded a glance at Cas, who was staring with his mouth open. Then Dean covered by glancing at a few of the other guys, too, as if gauging everyone's reactions. Dean realized that he hadn’t exactly answered Kevin’s question, but he looked impressed anyway. Alfie nudged Dean, holding out the bottle of whiskey. He took a long swig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * When I planned out that scene, I knew I just had to use Dean's sex speech from episode 9x08 X-D
>   * Yes, Alfie's line about “The Community of St. Charles: A History” is a silly little Harry Potter reference X-D There's [a real book](https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-community-called-taize-jason-brian-santos/1119005532?ean=9780830835256), but it doesn't have that title. The story he told is true, though.
>   * The Oscar Wilde quote about love is taken wildly out of context, just fyi. It's really quite poignant [in context](http://martyrion.blogspot.com/2015/03/love-is-sacrament-that-should-be-taken.html). But it's funny as hell out of context!
> 



	35. Week Five, Thursday

It was quiet when Dean awoke. He was used to getting up before the din started from all the other Maison d'Ange guys getting ready, but it seemed extra quiet today. As consciousness slowly trickled back into Dean's brain, he realized what it was. There was no rain falling outside today. Shouldn't be that big of a surprise, Dean thought to himself. It's not like he expected the rain to last forever. Still, he'd gotten used to it over the past few mornings. He stretched awkwardly in bed, then wrapped his arms around Cas's still sleeping figure. Cas groaned and muttered something. Maybe not so “still sleeping,” after all.

“What was that, little goat?” Dean murmured into his ear. Cas muttered something that sounded decidedly more peeved, and swung a clumsy fist behind him. Dean didn't even have to dodge to avoid the wildly misaimed blow.

“I feel like I found liquor store,” said Cas, more coherently now. “And I drank it.” Oh. So much for the famed high Russian alcohol tolerance. Between the eight of them last night, they'd drained the whole handle. Dean did some quick math. That worked out to four or five shots per person. He had only gotten a pleasant buzz from that, but it must have hit Cas harder.

“I'll go get you some water,” said Dean. He kissed Cas just below the ear, and rolled out of bed. He glanced at the clock. It was still early enough that he didn't have to worry about running into anyone else yet, so he didn't bother putting any clothes on over the boxers he'd slept in.

Dean stopped in the bathroom on his way downstairs. He wasn't totally immune to the effects of drinking. Down in the kitchen, he helped himself to a couple bowl-fulls of water before grabbing one of the plastic pitchers from the cabinet and filling it up. Dean grabbed a fresh drinking bowl from the stack on the counter, and brought everything back up to the third floor.

When entering Cas's room again, he checked on the paper he'd jammed in the old-fashioned keyhole the night before. As he'd explained to Cas, the Alp probably wouldn't strike the same place twice, but there was no harm in playing it safe. If nothing else, it helped ease the guilt Dean still felt over failing to protect Cas in the first place.

Dean helped Cas sit up and poured as many bowls of water into him as he'd drink, before Cas announced that he had to visit the toilet. When he returned, he crawled back into bed and pulled Dean close against his chest. Dean craned his neck to check the clock again. It was still an ungodly hour of the morning. They had plenty of time to just lay together or, more likely, fall back to sleep for a little while longer.

Alfie had an extra bounce in his step as he entered the courtyard from the road.

“Somebody looks happy,” said Adam.

Alfie smiled and flushed a little, looking down as if he'd been caught red-handed doing something.

“Ah, did our brother-to-be get in some Polish prayers?” quipped Balthazar.

Alfie shot Balthazar a look, before looking back up at Adam. “I finally told my contact brother that I want to become a brother,” he said, coming over to sit with the other guys in the dining area. There was still a little time before supper. Balthazar had already set the table, but the food hadn't arrived yet and a few of the guys were just hanging out.

“I thought everyone knew that,” said Adam, looking confused.

“Even I know that,” said Kevin. “And I’ve only been here two weeks!”

“I've told some of you guys,” said Alfie, sheepishly. “But I never mentioned it to a brother before. It feels so… personal. Like confessing that you've fallen in love.” He flushed even more.

“How'd it go?” asked Dean.

“It went well, I think,” said Alfie. “We talked a lot about vocations, and he asked a lot of questions. He said we'll talk more, but it sounds like I'm in it for the right reasons.” He couldn't hide the smile that crossed his face.

“What reasons?” asked Cas, leaning forward to pay attention. He was looking much better than he had this morning.

Alfie scratched his chin, thinking. “When I'm here, I just feel happy in a way I don't feel anywhere else.”

“Anybody can say that, though,” Adam countered. “It doesn't mean I want to give up my whole life to stay here!”

Alfie's brow furrowed. “It's hard to explain. I can describe some reasons, but the real core of it, I don't know how to put that into words. It just feels… right. From the first time I watched a documentary about monasticism, I felt this longing. I watched another documentary, where this boy's parents were upset that he wanted to join a monastery, and I didn't get it. How could they be upset, instead of thrilled? To me, the real question is why everyone else doesn't want to be a brother or a sister, too.” He shrugged.

“And besides,” Alfie continued. “It doesn't feel like giving up my life. It feels like finding something even better. God, that sounds cheesy. But I mean, I know I'll have to give up some things–”

“A lot of things,” Kevin chimed in.

“Yeah, but those things just don't seem as important as what I'd gain. The brotherhood, the simplicity of life, the–”

“The celibacy,” Balthazar cut in.

“That's not exactly one of the perks,” Alfie admitted. “But it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. And it's not like I'll be alone – I'll get to live in community with a hundred brothers! Besides, there's no guarantee I'd ever meet the right guy and get married, anyway. I'd rather intentionally choose to be celibate than unintentionally end up single.” Alfie suddenly became intensely interested in his thumbnail. “Not one of my better reasons for wanting to be a brother. But Brother Inias said that most aspirants have a mixture of right and wrong reasons.”

“What did he say about wrong reasons?” Castiel asked, a serious look on his face.

“Well, apparently some of the big ones are looking for a place to hide from the world, trying to escape a bad situation, and trying to please or impress other people, including family. My reasons aren't all perfect, but at least I don't have any of those ones.”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully.

“I could never do the vow of poverty,” said Adam.

Alfie shrugged. “For monastics, 'poverty' technically just means no personal property – everything is held in common, by the entire community. Historically, some monasteries got too rich and powerful, and it led to their downfall. That's why the St. Chuck's brothers say 'simplicity' more than 'poverty.' It keeps them honest.”

“And the vow of obedience?” asked Adam.

“Yeah,” said Alfie, “historically it could be pretty harsh. But now it basically means choosing to put the community first. To participate in the work and mission of the community, instead of always putting yourself and your own plans first. And you have to make that compromise in any family, really.”

Dean clapped Alfie on the knee. “Well, no offense, but better you than me! Honestly though, I hope it all works out for you.”

“We'll pray for you,” said Kevin.

“Thanks,” Alfie said with a smile. He looked nearly giddy at the prospect of becoming a brother.

“Time to help with supper,” Kevin added, pointing to the gate. Prakash and Dino were there, laden down with the boxes and containers carrying the evening meal. The guys collectively groaned as they stood up, then went to help finish setting everything up for supper.

“Dean, Dean, wake up!” Someone was shaking Dean. He mumbled something sleepily, and pushed the intruder away. “Dean! Is important!” The voice was insistent.

“What?” Dean grumbled, rolling over to face the sound, but not opening his eyes.

“I think… I think it is back.” Cas sounded breathless.

“…what?” Dean repeated.

“Kikimora! Is here!”

At that, Dean's eyes finally opened a crack. “'S an Alp,” he corrected.

“Is downstairs!” Cas's voice was rising in pitch. As Dean's vision cleared, he could see the fear in Cas's eyes.

Dean forced himself to sit up, and rubbed at his eyes. “It wouldn't come back here. Not after I almost caught it last time. What happened? What did you see?”

Cas swallowed hard, trying to calm himself. “I could not sleep, so I went downstairs to have tea. But when I pass Zachariah's room, I hear snoring.”

“So he snores,” said Dean. “So what?”

“It sounded… wrong,” said Cas. “Like struggle. So I look in room, and… is kikimora, I know it!”

Dean cupped Cas's face in his hands, and leaned their foreheads together. “It's an… never mind. Fine, I'll check it out.” He stood up and went out to the hallway. Before he went down the first stair, though, he turned back and went into his old room. Might as well be prepared, just in case. He fished the backpack out from under the bed and grabbed his Bowie knife. On his way back out of the room, he bumped into Cas. “Cas, go back to bed. I'll handle it.”

“No,” Cas said, shaking his head. He looked afraid, but determined. “I go with you.”

Dean wasn't awake enough to argue. And besides, a dude snoring was probably nothing anyway. “Fine. Stay behind me.”

As they descended the stairs, the sound of snoring became evident. It did sound a little odd, though. Rather than a steady chain of evenly-spaced rumbles, it was an irregular arrangement of choked-off sounds. Slightly more cautious now, Dean made his way toward the cracked open door. He nudged it open a little more, and what he saw sent adrenaline pumping through his system. Cas had been right.

Zachariah lay in bed, struggling against some unseen force, struggling to breathe and only intermittently succeeding with loud, gasping snores. Worse, there were slashes in his t-shirt, with thick borders of red blood. Dean turned back to Cas. Cas's eyes went wide when he saw the grave look on Dean's face. Dean put a finger to his lips to command silence. Carefully, Dean nudged the door open a little bit further, until he could slide sideways into the room. He clutched his knife tightly and stuck close to the wall. Cas imitated Dean's actions.

Once they were both in the room, Dean carefully nudged the door closed, carefully turning the doorknob to prevent the spring latch from making a sound. Dean looked around the room, trying to formulate a game plan on the spot. If he let the Alp escape again, it definitely wouldn't be foolish enough to return to Maison d'Ange a third time. Not with three other auxiliaire houses to choose from. Not to mention the brothers.

In the moonlight coming in through the window, he saw a mess of papers scattered on Zachariah's desk. An idea formed. He touched Cas's arm to get his attention. Then he mouthed the word “paper” while pointing at the desk, which was closer to Cas. Cas looked confused, so Dean pointed to the papers on the desk again, then to himself, hoping Cas could figure out what he meant this time. Understanding dawned on Cas's face. He nodded. Carefully, he took a step toward the desk. Then another. A floor board creaked. Dean and Cas both froze. They looked at Zachariah, ready to see him relax or wake up, freed from the Alp's influence. But nothing changed. Cas shifted his foot to a different spot on the floor, and finished his second step. He grabbed the first sheet of paper he could reach, and held it up to verify that it was what Dean wanted. Dean nodded and motioned him to bring it back. Cas carefully padded his way back and handed over the sheet of paper. Good start, thought Dean. Now, if only there was a way to crumple it up without alerting the Alp. Shit. That was like trying to quietly tear off a candy wrapper in a movie theater.

Cas held up a finger to get Dean's attention. Then he carefully kneeled down on the floor, right by the doorknob, and pressed a thumb over the keyhole. With his other hand he pantomimed crumpling something, then doing a quick switch. Dean couldn't help but smile a little. Bringing Cas along had been a good thing, after all. He held up three fingers to do a countdown, then quickly crumpled the paper into a rod-like shape and jammed it into the keyhole the instant Cas moved his hand. Zachariah let out a loud gasp. The two of them looked over to see what happened next, but there were no other apparent effects from their actions so far.

Dean took a deep breath. They were ready. Now they just had to force the Alp to take on its corporeal form again. Dean vaguely recalled something about leaving the light on to ward off a night hag. And Charlie had reported that the Alp released Hannah when she turned the lights on. Perfect. The light switch was easy to find, right next to the door. Dean pointed to it to clue Cas in on the plan, then did a countdown with his fingers again.

Nanoseconds after Dean flipped the light switch, an invisible force pushed Cas to the floor and then hit the door with an audible thump. Dean then felt it brush past him. As Dean looked in the direction it seemed to have gone, a patch of air in the middle of the room started to shimmer and grow. Dark patches appeared in the shimmering mist, which continued to take shape until it settled into the form of a man, with a unibrow, in full Wandergeselle attire.

“Helmut, I presume,” said Dean. The Alp snarled, raised his twisted tree branch walking stick, and charged at Dean. Dean raised an arm to block the blow, bracing himself for what could potentially be a bone-breaking blow. The Alp hadn't taken into consideration that they were indoors, though. By the time his stick finished scraping across the ceiling, most of the force behind it was gone. Dean grabbed the stick as it hit him, yanked it out of the Alp's hands, and gave him a sharp strike in the stomach with the far end of the stick. Overall, though, the stick was too big to be useful in such cramped quarters, so he tossed it into the corner where it wouldn't get in the way.

Dean advanced, knife in hand, while the Alp was still doubled over from the blow. Sensing Dean's approach, the Alp forced himself to stand tall. He put his fists up.

“You brought fists to a knife fight?” Dean taunted. Once Dean was in range, though, the Alp suddenly dropped to the floor and swept a leg out to knock Dean off his feet. He landed hard on his backside. The Alp took advantage of his momentary shock to lunge at him, but Dean was quick enough getting back up to get in a decent headbutt, which made the Alp stumble back. Dean advanced, holding the knife out. The Alp backed up until he hit the far wall. Dean approached, and pinned him with a forearm across his shoulders.

“You, hunter!” the Alp snarled. His face was red and full of hate, with a vein bulging on his forehead.

“You, dickwad,” Dean rejoined. He put the knife tip under the Alp's chin to tilt his head back. “Interesting eyes.” One was an ordinary, chocolate brown color. The other, however, was bright gold which appeared to shimmer and swirl. But as Dean drew his knife arm back for a blow, the Alp managed to duck out of the hold and slip past. He made a beeline for the door, but was stopped when Cas suddenly body slammed him into the bunk bed. It creaked horribly, and Dean was pretty sure that Zachariah's weight – he was now sitting up, with his knees curled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, bloody scratches on his chest still oozing – was the only thing that kept the bed on all four legs. Zachariah let out a whimper and shrunk away from the Alp.

The Alp grabbed on to Cas before he could get away. He took a deep sniff. “I know you,” he said. A cruel smile crossed his face. “Oh, you were delicious. Too bad we got so rudely interrupted.” He shot a glare at Dean, before returning his attention to Cas. “So different from most of my meals.” He lifted a hand to stroke Cas's cheek. “Such a good boy,” he said in a sing-song voice. “Such a good son!” Cas went pale.

Distracted by Cas, the Alp didn't register Dean's approach until Dean punched him square in the jaw. He loosened his grip, and Cas was able to retreat to a corner. Dean made another attempt to stab the Alp, but it kneed Dean in the crotch and ducked under his arm to escape. While Dean was still recovering from the blow, the Alp rushed him and tackled him to the floor. He straddled Dean's chest and wrapped his hands around Dean's throat. “Should have taken care of you the first night after I made you,” he growled. “This is so much less satisfying!” Dean swung wildly with his knife, but only managed to slash the Alp's sturdy coat. He couldn't breathe with the Alp's weight on his chest, and his vision was starting to go grey.

“Hey, assbutt!” came Cas's cry. He swung the floor lamp at the Alp and hit him in the head. It wasn't a very heavy blow, but it knocked the Alp's hat across the room. He immediately let go of Dean's throat and scrambled to chase after the hat, but Cas was quicker. He swept the hat up off the floor and, as the Alp closed in on him, tossed it across the room to Dean. Dean got up just in time to catch it. The Alp wheeled around and came after Dean, only for Dean to throw the hat back to Cas. As the Alp turned around yet again to chase after his errant hat, Dean made eye contact with Cas and pantomimed waving the hat down close to the floor. Cas immediately complied. He bent down and shook the hat down low, while whistling as if to attract a dog's attention. While the Alp dove to retrieve the hat, Dean darted around to the side. When the Alp was on his hands and knees on the floor, Dean delivered a swift kick that flipped the Alp over onto his back. He immediately dropped down to kneel on either side of the Alp's torso. Cas was quickly on his knees too, pinning the Alp's hands to the floor.

Finally, Dean saw on the Alp's face what he'd been hoping to see – fear. It wasn't nearly enough retribution for what he'd done to Cas and all the others, but it would do. He raised the knife, positioned it, and drove it into the Alp's gold eye. The Alp instantly went limp. Then, all at once, he reverted back into mist. As the mist hovered in the air, it turned to ash and floated down to the ground. It was over.

The door burst open, and Victor rushed inside. “What the hell is going on… here…” He was clearly trying to make sense of the strange scene before him.

Dean looked back over his shoulder at Victor. “Uh… The first rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club?” He flashed an awkward smile.

Toshi poked his head in the door. “We heard noises. Is everybody okay?”

“Yes, we are fine,” said Cas. “We are–” He looked over at Zachariah, still huddled on the bed, his t-shirt torn and streaked with blood. “Except Zachariah. He… got hurt.”

Victor looked suspiciously at Dean and Cas. Dean desperately hoped he hadn't seen the Bowie knife that was still in his hand. “I'll get dressed and bring him to the infirmary. You two should probably go back to your rooms.”

“That's an excellent idea,” said Dean. “We'll… go do that.” Victor shot one more look at them before leaving. Toshi disappeared again, too. Dean got the distinct sense that Victor didn't trust him and Cas to be the ones who took Zachariah to the infirmary, but to be honest, he was perfectly happy to let someone else take responsibility for getting Zachariah patched up. Dean let out a breath. He really, really hoped that he and Bobby could somehow talk him out of this one.

Dean looked around the room. Other guys could come to investigate at any time. He'd better stash the knife somewhere, and come back for it later. The wardrobe – perfect. Dean slid himself over, opened the lowest drawer, and stashed the knife amongst Zachariah's socks and boxer briefs. “That had better still be there when I come back for it,” Dean said to Zachariah in a low voice. Zachariah nodded weakly.

Dean and Cas stood up and started toward the door. “Hey,” came Zachariah's voice, small and timid. They turned to look at him. “You left a mess on my floor.”

Dean raised his eyebrows at Zachariah. “You're welcome,” he said. Then he and Cas left the room.

Faces were peeping out of every bedroom doorway as they crossed the second floor landing to get to the stairs. A door creaked open and Dean saw Victor and Toshi, now dressed, heading back to Zachariah's room. Dean and Cas just went back upstairs and collapsed, exhausted, into Cas's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Extended Scene:
>     * The scene with Alfie talking about his vocation has been cut down from its original length. [The uncut version is here](http://brotherfaithsisterdoubt.tumblr.com/post/180700992130).
>   * The documentaries Alfie mentions are [_Into Great Silence_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Into_Great_Silence) and [_The Calling_](http://www.drew.edu/news/2011/03/22/83894)
>   * The ruins of [Cluny Abbey](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cluny_Abbey) are only a short bus ride away from the real “St. Chuck's” (and well worth the visit, if you're ever in the area). The Cluniacs were once the most powerful monastic order in the western world. Now, they're extinct. It's a powerful reminder of the importance of staying true to the core values of monasticism, rather than being seduced by worldly wealth and power. Terry Jones (of Monty Python fame) did a [short documentary on medieval monasticism](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8gR2tFrLTM) as part of his _Medieval Lives_ series, which talks a little more about (among other things) how monasteries sometimes ended up undermining their own raison d'être.
> 



	36. Week Five, Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Songs:
>     * [Confitemini Domino](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCOsNNeB6a0) (Latin)
>     * [Ubi Caritas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9e_QO1ATho) (Latin)
>   * Pronunciations:
>     * [Ya ne znayu yesli ti dyavol ili angel](https://translate.google.com/#ru/en/Ya%20ne%20znayu%20yesli%20ti%20dyavol%20ili%20angel)
>     * [Kakoy tiy uzhasniy](https://translate.google.com/#ru/en/%D0%9A%D0%B0%D0%BA%D0%BE%D0%B9%20%D1%82%D1%8B%20%D1%83%D0%B6%D0%B0%D1%81%D0%BD%D1%8B%D0%B9)
>   * One last artwork by TheDogsled! Click it to see it in all its full-resolution glory!
> 


“Well, I'd say that calls for a cup of tea!” Bobby exclaimed, with a broad smile. “I'd, uh, I'd offer you something stronger, but the best we've got is wine,” he continued, quietly.

“Oh, that reminds me, I have a present for you.” Dean pulled a bottle of whiskey out of his backpack. He'd found it while putting away the knife he'd left in Zachariah's room (which, along with the other knives, was currently stashed in his own sock drawer). “Best the Dublin Airport duty-free shop had to offer! Or, uh, not the absolute cheapest, at least.”

A sad look crossed Bobby's face. “Aw, that's mighty generous of you. But you know we brothers don't accept gifts.” Then, he grinned. “But helping you drink it, well, helping people is my Christian duty! Give it here boy!” He snagged the bottle from Dean's hands, twisted off the cap, and took the first swig. He continued, handing the bottle back to Dean. “I heard about your friend's late night trip to the infirmary. He'll be fine. Didn't even need stitches.”

“I wouldn't exactly call Zachariah a friend,” Dean muttered before taking a swig.

“Well whatever you call him, I'm gonna have a talk with him later today. I'll impress upon him the importance of sticking to the official story – that an owl got in through his open window, but luckily you happened by and chased it back out.”

“An owl?” Dean asked, skeptically.

Bobby held his hands out in a weighing motion. “Eh, it’s not perfect. But it's more convincing than claiming a bat did that much damage, or a fox got in through a second-story window.” Dean couldn't argue with that, so he took another swig and handed the bottle back to Bobby.

“What happened, anyway?” asked Dean. “Don't get me wrong, I'm glad the bastard's dead. But I thought the lore said destroying the evil eye would just 'remove its malicious intent,' not kill it.”

Bobby shrugged. “How would I know? You know how lore is – it's never one hundred percent accurate. The details get hazy. Or maybe this one was so far gone that without his malice, there wasn't anything left. Either way, you did it, boy. Good work.”

Dean's heart swelled at the praise. Still, he felt a twinge of sadness at the same time. “So…” he began. “I guess I'll be heading home, then.”

Bobby nodded. “Well, the job's done. You're welcome to stay a while longer, if you like. But I can get you a plane ticket for as soon as this Sunday.”

Dean looked down and nodded. “Yeah, that's probably best. Gotta get back and protect folks from all the monsters back home. Still… I dunno, there's just something about this place.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Bobby, before taking a swig from the bottle and handing it over. “Hell, last time I came here, I never left!”

Dean gazed thoughtfully at the bottle. “It just seems that for once, when people say 'God is love,' they actually, you know, mean it.”

Bobby just nodded. “You're welcome to come back any time, you know,” he said. “Family is always welcome.” Dean gave him a puzzled look. He leaned forward to look Dean in the eye. “Family don't end with blood, boy.” He ruffled Dean's hair and snatched back the bottle of whiskey. Dean smiled in spite of himself.

“Oh, hey, so I've been spending a lot of time down at La Cascade this week, seeing as it's my job and all,” said Dean, switching tracks. “And I, uh, detected some EMF that wasn't there before. It's probably nothing, but I thought maybe I should check it out again when nobody's around. Just to be, you know, thorough. Do brothers ever go there after evening prayers? I wouldn't want to disturb–” He noticed the amused look on Bobby's face.

“Boy, you are a terrible liar. How have you been a hunter all these years? I think this is less about 'EMF,' and more about 'EAF.'” Dean looked confused. “An 'Extremely Attractive Friend,'” Bobby clarified.

Shit, thought Dean. Busted.

Bobby smirked. “In all my years, I've never seen or heard of a brother going to La Cascade after dark. You go have fun with your 'EMF.'” Dean's jaw dropped. “What?” said Bobby. “I chose celibacy, for myself. I don't impose it on anyone else! And after all you've done for the community, I think you've earned a little private time. Though I hope you're better at stealth than at lying. Cause if you get caught, this conversation never happened.”

When Dean and Bobby were both pleasantly buzzed, Bobby put the rest of the bottle away “for next time you come to visit.” Dean got to the upper gate to La Cascade with a minute to spare, let the people in, then spent the half hour before they had to shoo people out again walking around, looking for a good spot for later.

When he approached the open-air shrine, he noticed a bit of blue plastic sticking out from between a couple of boards along the edge of the wooden platform the shrine stood on. He went to investigate, and found a concealed door to a small storage area beneath the platform. The blue plastic was the corner of a recycling bag, and there was also a roll of garbage bags and even a broom and dustpan which looked like they'd seen better days. Curious, Dean thought, filing this information in the back of his mind.

Before long, it was time to usher everyone out of La Cascade again and lock up for midday prayers. There was one man who spoke very little English, and was politely intent on staying, who required several minutes, a lot of pointing, and finally a lock doodled over the gate on his welcome guide map before he understood that he had to leave. But other than that, the closing was no worse than usual.

Dean found himself dragged along to midday prayers by a few other, well-intentioned Maison d'Ange boys, and after that came lunch. After singing a grace of “Confitemini Domino, quoniam bonus. Confitemini Domino, alleluia,” they had fried fish fillets, as they did every Friday. There were also mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables. There was a large bowl of plain salad which, to Dean's surprise, didn't get passed around until after everyone had mostly finished the main course. Five weeks in, and he was still being surprised by strange European ways of doing things. Dessert was butterscotch pudding – not as good as chocolate, but perfectly serviceable – as well as yogurt and fresh fruit, which Dean roundly ignored.

As lunch was winding down, Brother Nathanaël rose to read the chores list and make announcements, as usual. “So, we had a bit of excitement last night, yes?” he began. Most of the guys looked up in rapt attention, eager to get some explanation of what had happened last night. A few of them – some of the guys who slept in Maison d'Ange II – looked confused, having not heard about anything unusual happening. “An owl got into one of the bedrooms in the middle of the night, and panicked and hurt the young man sleeping there,” Brother Nathanaël continued. Dean hazarded a glance at Zachariah. He had gone pale at the reminder of last night's events. One of the bandages that the sister nurse in the infirmary had used to dress his wounds was visible, peeking out over the top of his t-shirt collar. “But the injury is not serious. Another young man heard the commotion and chased the owl back out through the open window. Everyone is okay now, and no one did anything wrong. We just wanted everyone to know what happened, so there will be no rumors.

“Now, enough about last night. Today, after tea, there is an auxiliaire Bible study. If you are not working, you are strongly encouraged to attend.” Dean would make sure he was hard at “work” down at La Cascade this time. “Are there any other announcements?” Brother Nathanaël asked. He waited a moment, but no one spoke up. “Loué soit le Seigneur Christ.”

“Qu'il soit loué toujours,” everyone responded.

“Two of hearts!” Dino announced, putting a card on the growing pile. Mathieu followed it with a seven of hearts. Putu studied his hand before carefully selecting a seven of diamonds. Victor sat on a bench pushed a little ways back from the table, picking out “Immigrant Song” by Led Zeppelin on his guitar. Alfie was talking music translations with Adam.

“It's not about almsgiving,” Alfie said. “'Caritas' – 'charity' – in this context means universal love. You know, 'agape' love. So it says 'charity and love,' but an alternate translation could be 'love and love.'”

Cas was standing by the kitchen counter, finishing a bowl of tea as he watched Dean try to build a house of cards with the spare deck. He got as far as starting the third layer before it all came crashing down. “Son of a bitch!” Dean exclaimed. Cas chuckled and drained the last of his tea. Dean cleaned up the cards, then glanced out the window. It was finally dark. Time to put his plan into action.

Dean came up and put his hand on the small of Cas's back as he washed his tea bowl out in the sink. “Get your flashlight and meet me outside,” Dean murmured into Cas's ear. Cas turned to him with a questioning look. “Just trust me,” Dean said with a cocky grin. With that, he turned and sauntered out the door.

A couple minutes later, Cas came outside too and found Dean lounging on the stone wall, looking up at the stars. Dean saw Cas, sat up, and jumped down from the wall. “You ready?” he asked.

“Ready for what?” said Cas.

“It's a secret,” Dean replied, with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Then how I can know if I am ready?” said Cas, in mock exasperation. Dean grinned, and headed toward the gate that led out to the road. Cas followed.

“Where we are going?” Cas asked, as Dean led him past the bell tower and continued up the main road. “And why we need flashlight?”

“I told you,” said Dean. “It's a secret. You'll see.” Cas shook his head and kept walking next to him. Finally, just before they hit the northern Night Hospitality checkpoint that not even auxiliaires were allowed past (only Alfena families and women spending the week in silence), they turned right onto the side road that led past the over-thirty area, to the locked upper gate to La Cascade. Dean looked around for potential witnesses, then pulled the key out of his pocket. Within seconds, Dean had unlocked the gate, ushered Cas and himself through, and locked the gate behind them.

“But nobody goes to La Cascade at night,” Cas protested.

“I know,” said Dean, with a grin. Comprehension dawned on Cas's face, and he started to grin, too. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Dean could swear he saw a bit of a flush cross Cas's cheeks, too. “Come on, let's get down the hill before anyone sees us,” said Dean, and they started walking quickly across the upper lawn and down to the lower gate. By the time they got there, the light from the distant street lights had faded and they had to use Cas's flashlight to see where they were going. “Keep the beam down on the ground,” Dean instructed. “Don't go waving it around.”

They climbed down the staircase through the woods and emerged into the main field. Dean took Cas by the hand and led him a little further along, to the lawn in front of the shrine, where he finally stopped and turned to look at Cas.

“So, uh, I thought this might be a good place where we could… stargaze. Or something.” He was glad it was so dark here, because he could feel a flush crossing his own cheeks now. Dean Winchester did not do romantic shit, but this was starting to feel like some kind of romantic shit.

“I have thought much about how I want to… stargaze… with you,” said Cas, with an impish smile. “But, here on grass?” he added.

“Oh, no, I thought of that,” Dean rushed to respond. He let go of Cas's hand, grabbed his flashlight, and darted off to the hidden storage space he'd found below the shrine. Moments later, he returned with a well-stuffed backpack. Kneeling down on the grass, he wrestled a folded blanket out of the bag and unfurled it onto the lawn.

“And, uh, I didn't want to kill your flashlight batteries, so I thought maybe we could try this thing out,” said Dean, pulling the ceramic oil lamp and its accessories out out of the bag, too. Cas knelt in front of him to see what he was doing. He carefully poured some lamp oil into it, wetted down the wick, secured the lid, and struck a match to light it. The glow of the lamp wasn't nearly as bright as the flashlight had been, but seeing the warm, flickering light dance across Cas's face made Dean's breath catch in his throat.

“When you planned this?” asked Cas, wonder in his voice.

“I got the idea earlier in the week,” Dean admitted. “And I stashed this stuff here today, the second time La Cascade was open. When you were stuck in Bible study.”

“You got idea before or after old church?” Cas asked.

Dean bit his lip and looked down. “Before,” he confessed. “But it was too rainy.” He was suddenly worried that Cas might be offended by his presumptuousness, but instead, Cas smiled.

“You are thinking about this all week,” Cas surmised. “Every day, not knowing if would happen. This must be difficult,” he teased.

“Oh, it's been hard,” Dean said with a smirk. “Lying next to you, in that damn squeaky bed? It's gotten really hard.” Cas touched Dean's cheek, and playfully pushed his face aside.

When Cas put his hand back down, it landed on the backpack and he felt something else still inside. “How much do you fit inside bag?” he asked, astonished.

“Oh, right, I brought snacks!” said Dean.

“Snacks?” asked Cas.

“Yeah, dinner was hours ago.” Dean shrugged. “I thought maybe we'd be hungry. There's, uh, some fruit and cookies, and a few sodas from Kohvik. I would have stolen a bottle of wine, but I didn't get the chance.”

Cas fished two cans of Fanta out of Dean's bag, raspberry and green apple, and held them out for Dean to take his pick. Dean went with green apple. “Let's go to bridge,” Cas said suddenly, pulling a peach out of the backpack, too.

“Okay. Uh, why?” asked Dean.

Cas shrugged. “You said we are here to stargaze, no? Well, on bridge there are fewer trees to hide stars.”

Dean chuckled. “Sure, let's look at the stars,” he said. He grabbed the oil lamp so as not to leave it unattended, and they headed down the path to the bridge that spanned the pond. They sat down in the middle of the bridge, dangling their legs over the side.

Dean took a sip of his soda, and looked down into the water. Cas nudged him. “Stars are up there,” he said, pointing to the sky.

Dean blinked a couple times. “Yeah, sorry, my mind just wandered for a sec.”

“Wandered to where?” asked Cas.

Dean sighed. “I'm leaving on Sunday,” he confessed.

“I also leave Sunday,” Cas said quietly.

“Back to St. Petersburg, to become a priest?”

Cas took a bite of his peach. “Back to St. Petersburg for now, yes. But I received e-mail from University of California. I am accepted!”

“Oh, wow,” said Dean. “Congratulations. So, I guess you'll have to do a lot of thinking now, to decide which school you're going to, yeah?”

Cas shook his head. “There is no question anymore. I choose. I am going to University of California, to study philosophy.”

“Hot damn,” said Dean. “You and Sammy will practically be neighbors!”

“You can visit both schools in one trip,” said Cas. His smile faltered. “If you want to, I mean–”

“Of course I want to,” said Dean. He stroked Cas's hair and leaned in to give him a kiss. This was better than Dean had ever hoped. He wouldn't have to say goodbye to Cas when he left, after all. Well, not for long, at least. And… he'd have an excuse to visit Sammy. Okay, that was a more anxiety-inducing thought. But he could deal with it. Later. Tonight, it was him and Cas. “So, what was the deciding factor? Between UC Berkeley and priest school?”

Cas let out a breath. “It was kiki–” He saw Dean open his mouth to correct him. “–Alp.”

“The Alp?” Dean asked, shocked.

“Well, dream from Alp.” He went quiet for a moment. Dean knew that Cas was thinking about the nightmare he'd had during the attack. He reached out a hand to stroke Cas's back. “Everything was black, and cold, and empty,” Cas said quietly. “I heard voices, my mother and father, saying they are so proud. But it means nothing. I see church in distance, and I know is mine, but I feel dread. People surround me and say 'Father bless me,' and 'Oh Father, you are so holy,' but still I feel alone and sick and like fraud. I have everything I am told I should want, and I am miserable and alone.” The look of pain on Cas's face made Dean's chest ache. Right as he was about to pull Cas in and hold him, though, Cas turned and looked right at him. “And then I wake up, and you are there. And you stay. I am not alone.”

Dean set his soda can down on the bridge and raised his hand to Cas's cheek. He leaned in and rested their foreheads together.

“How is…” Dean placed his hand over Cas's chest, where the Alp's attack had left a nasty bruise.

“It does not hurt now,” said Cas.

“Let me see,” Dean said. Cas pulled his shirt off. In the dim lamplight, the bruise was barely visible, a fading brownish-yellow splotch. Dean ran his hand over the bruise, then down Cas's abdomen, around to his side, and back up again. Cas's skin felt warm, even in the unusually warm night air. Cas closed his eyes and leaned into Dean's touch. He reached up and lazily ran his fingers through Dean's hair.

After several moments of just touching each other, Cas said thoughtfully, “I believe in God.” Dean stilled but didn't move away, not sure where Cas was going with this. “And Christ says, entire law is to love God and to love neighbor. I think…” He paused for a moment. “I think I believe this. And I think, in my life, God is doing something new.”

“I'm not so good with all this God stuff,” Dean said. “But if there is a God, and he does mess around in our lives, then I can't believe for one second that what he wants for you is, you know, all that stuff from your dream.”

Cas leaned in and planted a lingering kiss on Dean's lips. “I am glad you stayed, that night.”

Dean leaned in and kissed him back. He could taste the peach juice on Cas's lips. “I told you, didn't I? I won't leave you.”

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/f048b6f1cd2dd559d9a28f5fcad42469/tumblr_piu1nsQ6k81wptgbso2_1280.png)

“Except on Sunday,” Cas said, with a sad smile.

“Yeah, I guess that's unavoidable,” Dean admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you can't put that on me – you're leaving, too! When are you gonna come to the States, anyway?”

“Hmm, month from now, I think?” said Cas. “I need to finish getting visa, and other paperwork.”

“Mm, paperwork,” said Dean. “Sexy.”

Cas sighed. “Is not fun, but is necessary.”

“Well if they need a character reference, I can tell them what an angel you are,” said Dean, leaning in to suck and nip at Cas's ear.

“I do not think–” Cas was interrupted by a flick of Dean's tongue, which made him shiver. “I do not think they accept testimony from devil who corrupts angels.” Dean couldn't see Cas's smile, but could hear it in his voice.

“'Angels'?” said Dean. “Plural? You're the only one, sweetheart.” He nipped again at Cas's ear, making him moan. Given their isolation, he didn't even try to stifle the sound, which made blood rush to Dean's cock.

Dean kissed his way down Cas's neck, while trailing a hand up his thigh. “Ya ne znayu yesli ti dyavol ili angel,” Cas said breathily.

“What's that mean?” Dean asked, lips brushing against Cas's skin with every word.

“I do not know if you are devil or angel,” Cas translated.

Dean chuckled. “Maybe a bit of both. Or just some poor schmuck stuck in between.”

Cas crooked a finger under Dean's chin and lifted his head up to kiss him. Dean leaned in, closing his eyes and drinking in the feeling of Cas's lips moving slowly over his own. Even after all the kisses since the first one in the garden, Dean was amazed that he actually got to do this.

Cas tried to pull Dean closer but, reaching the maximum extent possible in their current position, had to change tactics. He rose to his knees, pivoted, and threw one leg over Dean's. Realizing what Cas was doing, Dean moved back to make more space between himself and the bridge railing. Cas settled down, straddling Dean's lap.

They looked into each other's eyes for one breathless moment, before Dean broke the silence by saying, “Hello!”

Cas huffed a laugh. “Privet,” he said.

“How are you?” Dean asked, following the stream of consciousness.

Cas bit his lip. “I can be better,” he said.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

Cas looked Dean up and down, and nodded. “You see, I do not have shirt, but you still have shirt. This is not fair, I think.”

Dean chuckled. “Well, that's easy to fix,” he said, reaching to remove his t-shirt. But Cas grabbed his hands to stop him, before taking the hem of the shirt with his own hands and slowly pulling it up and over Dean's head, then all the way off and tossing it into a pile with his own shirt. He trailed his hands down Dean's bare chest. Dean shivered, and wasn't sure if it was from the gentle breeze blowing across the pond or from the electric charge in the air between the two of them.

Dean tilted his head up to kiss Cas again. He felt Cas's tongue begging entry, and gripped Cas's hips tight as he parted his lips. Cas kissed him eagerly, and Dean responded with equal passion. Hands explored bare skin as Cas started gently rocking his hips. It wasn't the best position for grinding together, but just having the freedom to move against each other was bliss. Dean moaned as Cas nipped at his lower lip. Cas let out an appreciative hum.

Cas ran his fingers through Dean's hair as Dean reveled in stroking Cas's muscled back. After a moment, Dean felt Cas's hand trail down to land on his chest. Cas pushed until Dean took the hint and allowed himself to be pushed back to lie on the rough wooden surface of the bridge. Cas followed him until, finding himself gazing down at Dean, his breath hitched.

Cas licked his lips. “Maybe…” he started. “Maybe we should see what stars look like from blanket?” He gave a bashful grin.

Dean grinned back. “Oh, I like the sound of that,” he said.

Cas stood up, grabbed the oil lamp, took Dean's hand, and practically dragged him back to where the blanket lay spread out on the lawn.

“What's your hurry, sweetheart?” Dean asked, as Cas hastily toed off his shoes by the edge of the blanket. “We have all night.” He cupped Cas's face in both hands and gave him a gentle kiss before kneeling down to unlace his boots.

“I already have waited long enough,” Cas said in a low voice. He stroked Dean's hair with his free hand, then grasped the short strands as best he could to push Dean's head back to look at him. The hungry look on Cas's face sent a thrill through Dean.

“Yeah,” said Dean, with a smirk. “I can see how eager you are.” He glanced down at the bulge in Cas's jeans, right in front of his face. He looked back up. “But patience is a virtue.” He planted a kiss on the front of Cas's pants, then mouthed him through the coarse fabric. A sharp intake of breath told him that his teasing was having the desired effect.

Cas knelt quickly and put the oil lamp down in a safe spot. He carefully placed his glasses beside it. Then, he turned back to Dean and tackled him down onto the blanket. Dean ended up on his back, with Cas on all fours above him. He looked up to see Cas gazing intensely down at him, his face half illuminated and half in shadow. He sank down slowly, eyes on Dean's lips. Dean leaned up to meet him halfway. “We are doing virtues now?” Cas asked. “Patience…” He kissed Dean. “Self-restraint…” Another kiss. “Chastity…” Cas brushed his lips lightly over Dean's before pulling away again. Dean craned his neck to chase after him, but only got another light brush for his efforts.

“Fuck virtue,” said Dean. He grabbed Cas's hair with one hand and his ass with the other, pulling him down so their bodies lay flush against each other. Cas groaned and savored the contact with Dean, personal space long forgotten.

“Fuck virtue,” Cas agreed. He sat back on his heels, then ducked down as far as he could and started trailing a line of kisses up Dean's chest before directing his attention to one of the nipples. He propped himself up on an elbow and laved the nipple with his tongue, licking at the soft, delicate skin while his other hand stroked up and down Dean's side.

Dean relaxed into the blanket and raised a hand to lazily stroke Cas's hair. “You wanna learn a trick?” he asked, after a moment.

“What trick?” Cas asked, raising his head.

“After you lick it, try blowing on it,” Dean said.

Cas obediently licked at Dean's nipple again, before pulling back to blow a cool stream of air over it. Dean gasped quietly as it instantly rose into a hard little nub. Cas explored it again, feeling the difference on his tongue. He nipped at it, rolling the nub between his teeth. Dean gasped again. “Harder,” he said breathily. Cas hesitated. Then he brought his free hand up to pinch at Dean's other nipple, while carefully biting harder at the one in his mouth until Dean arched his back and moaned.

“You like some pain,” Cas observed, sitting up.

“A little bit,” Dean confessed. He was glad the darkness hid how pink his face was turning.

“I want to know what you like,” said Cas, quietly. “I want to learn everything.” He leaned down again, switching up which nipple he bit and which he pinched and twisted, making Dean shudder.

Dean grabbed Cas under his arms, pulled him down to kiss him, then flipped the two of them over so he was now on top. “I should be helping you,” Dean said, kissing Cas's neck, “figure out what you like.”

“I like you,” said Cas, leaning his head back.

Dean chuckled. “Lucky me.” He trailed his lips down to the curve where neck met shoulder. “God, Cas,” he sighed, rolling his hips against Cas's and licking and sucking at his neck. Cas put his hands on Dean's hips to hold him close and closed his eyes to focus on the sensations of soft lips and warm breath against his skin. “Uh,” said Dean. He propped himself up on his elbows to look at the patch of reddened skin. “I should stop. I'm going to leave a mark, if I keep this up.”

“Will it show?” asked Cas.

“Your shirt would cover it, but–”

Cas opened his eyes and looked right at Dean. “Do it,” he said, his voice husky. When Dean paused, he grabbed Dean by the hair and pulled him back in. Dean enthusiastically resumed kissing and licking and nipping at Cas's skin, his cock hardening at the thought of finally marking Cas as his. He took animalistic pleasure at rutting against Cas while claiming him – re-claiming him from the monster that had dared to mark him first. Cas undulated beneath him. Dean reveled in the sounds he made, the little gasps and moans as Dean scraped his teeth over smooth flesh.

“Dean!” Cas exclaimed after he gave Cas's neck a particularly long suck. Dean pulled back and admired his work. A dark red oval had appeared where it would be just barely hidden when he put his shirt back on. Dean grinned as he ran his thumb over the mark. It would long outlast the fading bruise on Cas's chest.

Cas wrapped his arms around Dean and held on to him tightly for a couple moments, before bringing his hands around to fiddle with Dean's belt buckle. Dean sat up so he could do the same for Cas. He quickly had Cas's belt undone and jeans unzipped, and was stroking him gently through his boxers, while Cas still struggled with Dean's belt buckle.

“You didn't have this much trouble before,” Dean teased.

“Before,” replied Cas, “you were not distracting me.”

“Oh, am I being a distraction?” said Dean, reaching into Cas's boxers. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to distract you.” He tugged at Cas's foreskin, then started slowly gliding it back and forth over the head.

Cas's head fell back onto the blanket. “Kakoy tiy uzhasniy,” he said. Before Dean could ask, he translated, “You are so terrible.”

“Oh sweetheart, wait till I get started,” said Dean.

“Take your own damn trousers off,” said Cas.

“Yes sir,” Dean responded, easily undoing his belt, button, and zipper one-handed. He only took his other hand off Cas's cock when he needed to stand up and pull his boxers and jeans off. He then knelt and tugged at Cas's. Cas obliged by raising his hips so the clothing could slide down. Dean crawled back up Cas's body, stopping to plant a few kisses on his inner thigh and give one teasing lick up the length of his cock. Cas gasped at the sensation. Dean flicked his tongue across the very tip, then continued his way upward to kiss Cas's lips.

Cas reached under Dean's arms and up again to grab his shoulders. He intertwined their legs and arched up, seeking as much skin-to-skin contact as he could get. Just as he was getting into a comfortable position, though, he put one hand on Dean's chest to push him away. “Um, your necklace is stabbing me,” he said with an apologetic chuckle.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” said Dean. “Let's, uh, get rid of the rest of this stuff, then.” He quickly removed his socks, then put his assorted jewelry in a pile near the oil lamp. Cas followed his lead, putting his prayer rope safely in the pocket of his blue jeans. “Wait,” said Dean. “Before I forget…” He leaned over and grabbed a plastic bottle from the backpack. “Just in case we need it.”

“What is?”

“Lotion,” Dean explained, kneeling over Cas's outstretched legs. “I snagged it from the supply closet. 'Be Prepared,' that's the Boy Scout motto!”

“You are scout?” Cas asked.

“Well, no,” Dean admitted. “But I, uh, knew a scout leader, once.” This probably wasn't the best time to explain that by “knew,” he meant in the biblical sense.

“What is for?” Cas asked, head tilted to the side.

That caught Dean off guard. “You know. Lubricant. Dry hands are no fun.” Cas still looked confused. “Give me your hand,” Dean said in a quiet voice. “I'll show you.” Cas held up his hand. Dean turned it palm-up, and squirted some lotion into it. He knelt, straddling Cas's legs, and lined his cock up with Cas's. Then he brought Cas's hand down to wrap around them both. Hand-over-hand, they stroked themselves back up to full hardness. Cas kept stroking as Dean let go and put his arms on Cas's shoulders, hands joined behind his head. With this leverage, he started thrusting against Cas's cock, prompting Cas to squeeze tighter to get better contact between the sensitive undersides.

Dean kissed Cas on the forehead and rested his forehead in Cas's hair. He closed his eyes and focused on the sublime sensation of thrusting into Cas's tight fist and feeling the solid shaft and velvety smooth skin of Cas's cock against his own, plus the perfect little twist of the wrist Cas put at the top of each stroke.

When his thighs started to protest at the repetitive motion, Dean pushed Cas back onto the blanket. Cas in turn pushed Dean over to the side, rolling with him to end up on top, between Dean's legs. Bracing himself on on elbow, Cas wrapped his hand around the two of them again and took over thrusting against Dean. He frantically kissed everywhere he could reach, from Dean's lips to his chest. He thrust at a punishing pace, and was soon breathing heavily and releasing breathy moans.

“Slow… slow down,” said Dean, breathing heavily himself.

“Why?” Cas demanded.

“Because I'm not done with you yet,” Dean said. He reached down between them and took Cas's hand, pulling it up to kiss the palm before intertwining their fingers. Cas let out a small whine. “I know,” said Dean. “Life's so hard when you have a hot guy who wants to suck you off.”

“Who said that you are hot?” asked Cas, narrowing his eyes in mock criticism.

“Hmm, you did,” said Dean, rolling his shoulders. “Actions speak louder than words.” He grinned and reached his other hand up to pat Cas's cheek. Cas took this hand too, and pinned both to the ground.

“Then I am not done with you, either,” he murmured in a low voice, so close that Dean could feel his breath on his ear. He shivered at the implications. Cas nudged Dean's head to the side and dove in to find the sensitive spot he'd located just behind Dean's ear the other day, alternating between licking at it and nipping at the shell of his ear until Dean was gasping and shuddering. He trailed his lips down and across Dean's throat, planting a kiss in the dip just above the breastbone before continuing down and to the side. Dean was sure that Cas was going for a nipple again, but instead, he stopped a couple inches higher.

“I want to mark you, too,” Cas said, his voice husky.

“Please,” Dean sighed.

With permission granted, Cas started off by biting – hard. Dean gasped and struggled against Cas's hands pinning his, without success. Cas swept his tongue over the bitten area, then started sucking at the tender skin. Dean barely had time to relax before another bite made him buck under Cas.

Dean groaned loudly. “That is good sound, or bad sound?” Cas asked.

“It's good,” said Dean, panting. “It's very good.” Cas went in for another bite. Dean groaned again and fought to free his hands, but Cas held strong. Happy with the groundwork he'd laid, Cas began sucking at the bitten skin in earnest. When he finished, Dean looked down and saw a mark that was easily two or three times the size he'd left on Cas.

“Damn,” said Dean. “You don't mess around.”

“I think this is something I like,” Cas replied. He took Dean's hands and placed them on his own sides, demanding to be touched. Dean obediently stroked the warm flesh, from his ribcage down to his hips, as Cas leaned down to kiss him gently. “On you, at least,” he added.

“I bet I know something else you'll like,” Dean said.

“You will tell me?” asked Cas. “Or is surprise?”

“I already told you,” said Dean, leaning up to kiss Cas. “I'm gonna suck your cock.” He reached one hand down between them and quickly found what he was looking for. He started smearing Cas's pre-come around. “I'm gonna lick it, suck it, drive you crazy till all you can do is fuck my face till you shoot your load down my throat and fill me up with your come. Think you'd like that?” Cas swallowed and nodded. His cock jumped in Dean's hand.

Dean flipped them over once again, then settled himself down on his side, perpendicular to Cas, propping himself on one elbow. With his free hand, he grasped Cas's cock and gave it a few strokes. Dean was horribly tempted to tease Cas a bit, make him beg for it even, but decided to show a little mercy. Starting at the base, he licked a stripe up the underside of Cas's cock. He planted a kiss right on the tip, then parted his lips and slowly sucked it into his mouth as far as he could in this position. Cas moaned as the wet warmth of Dean's mouth enveloped him. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Dean pulled back, keeping the head in his mouth and pumping the shaft with his hand. He'd only gotten a chance to play with an uncut cock once or twice in the past, but he delighted in the way the skin glided along the firm core beneath. Dean experimented, brushing his tongue over the frenum while gently tugging at the skin just beneath to stretch it ever so slightly. Cas's sudden intake of breath, followed by a shuddering exhalation, was all Dean needed to hear. He dove down, taking Cas deep before pulling back again. With his free hand he gently caressed Cas's balls, enjoying the contrast between the hard cock in one hand and soft sack in the other.

Dean glanced up and noticed that Cas had propped himself up on his elbows to watch Dean work. He met Cas's eyes and went deep again, turned on by knowing that Cas was watching, and eager to put on a good show. After several more deep thrusts, he pulled away from Cas's cock. Cas whined, but was quickly silenced by a lick up the underside of the head. He gasped and threw his head back. Time to really wreck him, Dean thought. He sucked Cas back into his mouth and, after bobbing his head a few times, went deep and then pulled back while simultaneously sucking hard. Cas cried out and collapsed back onto the blanket.

Cas was impossibly hard. Dean could tell that he was getting close, but wasn't ready to let him come. Dean took his mouth off of Cas, producing another whine. Oh yeah, he was close to the edge. Dean gently, lazily licked at Cas while thinking of potential ways to make him last longer. Suddenly, an idea struck him. It was risky – Cas might get offended, or outright turned off. But then again, he'd been the one to initiate things in the old church. Nothing ventured, nothing gained – he'd give it a try.

“One sec, babe. I'll be right back.” He kissed Cas right where his leg met his body, then made his way to the edge of the blanket and located Cas's prayer rope in the pocket of his jeans. He crawled back to where Cas was clutching at the blanket, clearly trying to hold back from touching himself. The sight of Cas hard and laid out for him like this was fucking beautiful. Dean took Cas's hand, and pressed the prayer rope into it. “Time to say your prayers,” Dean said softly. “You're not allowed to finish, until you finish.” Cas's eyes sprung open, wide. Shit, Dean thought, did I go too far? But Cas only bit his lip and nodded slowly.

Dean reached down and started slowly stroking Cas's cock again. He looked up at Cas's face, and saw him silently mouthing something, presumably in Russian. “I can't hear you,” he chided.

“…I v Yedinovo Gospoda Isusa Hrista, Syna Boga…” Cas murmured. Dean could be cruel and intentionally try to make this difficult, but he'd be nice instead. This time. He settled himself back down and started licking Cas's cock slowly, tracing meandering patterns up the shaft with his tongue before swiping it over and around the head. He kept up this gentle teasing until he heard a change in tone in Cas's voice. “…I zhizn' budushchego veka. Amin'!” he concluded, triumphantly, before taking a deep breath and starting on the next prayer. “Blagoslovite Gospoda, moyu dushu…”

Dean went at a leisurely pace while Cas kept up a steady litany. The repetitive nature allowed Dean to start recognizing the main prayer Cas was using, and notice when he started a different one. “Gospod' moya sila, Gospod' moya pesnya…” Cas's voice cracked on “…Ya veryu v nivo i ne boyus'…” and he had to stop to take a couple of breaths before he could continue. “Blagoslovite Gospoda…”

As things progressed, Cas's voice started to show more and more stress. Hitches and out-of-rhythm pauses started appearing in his recitations. The exercise was a test in Dean’s control, too. He longed to finish Cas off, imagined how unbelievably hot it was going to be, but held back to give Cas a fighting chance at lasting until the end.

Dean's jaw started to get sore. He could work through it, of course, but a glance up at Cas's prayer rope told him that while they were over half done (Dean was actually surprised at how quickly it was going), there was still a ways to go. He switched over to stroking and licking for a bit. The rest for Dean was hardly a rest for Cas, though, who was noticeably speeding up now and starting to rock his hips to meet Dean's tongue. “…kotoraya vedet menya v zhizn'!” He took a deep breath before starting the next repetition. “Blagoslovite Gospoda, moyu dushu…”

Dean felt Cas start to tremble at the effort of holding off. He glanced up again and caught sight of Cas's head thrown back and chest heaving. He held his prayer rope in one hand, fingers nimbly going from one knot to the next, while the other hand was tangled in his own hair. The rope was definitely getting close to the end now. It wouldn't be much longer.

Cas reached the point where he could only gasp out a few syllables at a time. “…i… blagoslovite… svyatoye… imya Boga…” Dean couldn't see exactly how many knots were left on the rope, but it wasn't many. He took Cas's cock into his mouth again, sucking at the head and stroking the shaft with his hand before slowly going deeper and coming back up again. Suddenly, Cas's hand was grasping Dean's hair. He could feel the prayer rope hanging down onto his cheek. Cas's volume rose and he bucked his hips, driving his cock deeper into Dean's mouth. After a couple of thrusts, he found a clumsy rhythm and started desperately fucking Dean's face.

“Blagoslovite… Gospoda… dushu moyu…” Cas gasped out. “…kotoraya… vedet menya… v zhizn'!” he proclaimed victoriously, before crying out one more time as he thrust again into Dean's mouth and came in pulsing spurts. Dean swallowed, then again. He kept his mouth on Cas's cock, licking up the last few drops, until he felt Cas sigh and go limp. Then he pulled away, careful to avoid the overstimulated head. Dean crawled up to lay down next to Cas, propped up on one elbow, stroking Cas's chest with his free hand and admiring the look of absolute bliss on his face.

After a while of just lying there breathing, Cas said, “Wow.”

“Wow,” Dean agreed, a big smile on his face.

“Is always like this?” Cas asked.

“Well,” Dean admitted. “I may have spoiled you a little. This was… intense.”

“You will show me what is normal when I come to America,” said Cas, rolling onto his side to face Dean.

“I don't think it'll ever be normal with us,” said Dean, stroking Cas's cheek.

“We will have much practice, then,” Cas said with a smile. “Hmm,” he added after a moment. “You still need something.” He reached down to touch Dean's still semi-erect cock.

“Well, I mean, it would be nice,” Dean said with a grin. “If you're still capable of functioning, after that.”

“I think I can manage,” said Cas. He sat up and squinted around, before leaning over Dean to grab the abandoned bottle of lotion. “I figure out why you need,” he said, squirting a dollop into his hand. “Is because you are cut. But you are not Jewish, no? Is very strange.”

Dean shrugged. “It's pretty common in America.”

Cas tilted his head to the side. “Why?”

“I dunno. Hygiene, or something,” said Dean.

“Ah.” Cas nodded. “In Russia, we use shower for hygiene.”

“Shove it, smartass,” said Dean, giving Cas a playful shove in the chest.

“So you do not want this?” Cas held up his hand.

“I didn't say that,” Dean quickly clarified.

Cas kissed Dean while reaching down to start stroking his cock. The cool lotion was a shock at first, but it quickly warmed as Cas stroked him back to full mast. Dean twined his fingers in Cas's hair as they kissed, and started rocking his hips to thrust into Cas's fist. He moaned into Cas's mouth as Cas swept his hand across his cock in just the right way, before breaking away to watch Cas's fingers stroking across his hardened flesh. The large hands with surprisingly delicate fingers, which Dean had imagined in exactly this situation a number of times while watching him play.

“God, you have such beautiful hands,” Dean sighed.

“Ty sovsem krasavets,” Cas replied, ducking his head to look into Dean's eyes.

“What's that mean?” Dean asked, looking up. Cas just grinned and shook his head. Dean chuckled breathily. “You bastard,” he said, then immediately moaned when Cas gave a swift flick of his thumb across the head.

“Ya nikogda ne dumal…” Cas murmured, trailing his lips along Dean's jawline. He stopped to swirl his tongue across Dean's ear, before reversing direction to work his way down Dean's neck. “…eto mne vozmozhno.” He kept descending, stopping to nip again at the mark he'd left on Dean's chest, eliciting a sharp breath at the reminder of the sore spot. Then he sat up just enough to free his bottom arm and use it to push Dean over. Dean obediently flopped onto his back, arms spread wide, offering his body up for Cas's touches.

Cas trailed his free hand down Dean's chest, moving himself further down Dean's body as necessary so he could follow his hand with his lips as he continued stroking Dean's cock all the while. Finally, he reached his goal. He nuzzled at the base, inhaling the mixed aroma of Dean and lotion, before peppering little kisses up the shaft and finally taking the head into his mouth. His movements were bolder this time, as he tried to imitate some of what Dean had done to him.

“You're a quick study,” Dean huffed, trying to hold back from driving his cock deep into Cas's throat. Cas just hummed his assent, sending a pleasant vibration through his lips and tongue. Already sensitized from how Cas had been stroking him with his hand, it wasn't long before Dean started to feel his climax building. “Oh god, baby. Just keep doing that,” he whispered, and Cas was all too happy to accommodate. Soon, Dean was breathing heavily and thrusting into Cas's mouth in spite of himself. Cas decided to try out Dean's move of pulling out and sucking at the same time, and after doing this twice in a row, Dean finally came with a loud moan. Cas pulled away from his cock and watched, mesmerized, as Dean's come painted his fingers and Dean's belly. He kept stroking gently until Dean, suddenly too sensitive, reached a hand down and took his wrist to still him.

“Wow,” said Dean, echoing Cas's earlier avowal. Cas just gave a satisfied hum in reply, stretching out next to Dean to hold him as he came down. They lay like that for what felt like forever, absentmindedly nuzzling and caressing each other until the oil lamp flickered and went out. “Um, shit,” said Dean. “Where’d you leave your flashlight, again?”

After a thankfully minimal amount of groping around the edge of the blanket, Cas located the flashlight. “Probably is sign to go back,” said Cas. Dean nodded his agreement. He would have happily stayed here with Cas for hours, but realistically, they did need to go back at some point. They wiped themselves clean on a corner of the blanket and gathered up their scattered clothes.

“Ow!” said Dean.

“What is wrong?” asked Cas, startled by Dean's exclamation.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Dean, pulling his amulet out from under his shirt, where it had been flush against his skin a moment before. “I just left this thing too close to the oil lamp. It's burning hot now.”

“You need me to kiss and make better?” Cas asked.

“I've got something else you can kiss,” said Dean.

“Again, already?” asked Cas, with a teasing smirk.

Dean muttered something about the “male refractory period” and pulled his jeans back on.

When everything was all packed up again, and their trash was thrown into the nearest garbage can, Dean swung the backpack up onto his shoulders. They made their way back up the path to the lower gate. Before passing through and locking it behind them, Dean turned to Cas and gave him one more kiss. They continued across the field to the upper gate, checked to see if anyone was around, and snuck back through.

They passed the occasional person or group of people as they went by the barracks and Nyumba. It was too late for them to be coming back from Kohvik, so they were probably just now leaving from evening prayers. As they passed by La Boutique, they could hear the music still playing from inside the church. The accompaniment was pre-recorded at this hour, rather than coming from live musicians, but it was apparently perfectly adequate for the remaining late-night worshippers.

As they passed by, Dean recognized the song. “Ubi caritas et amor, ubi caritas, Deus ibi est,” the people inside the church sang. “Where there is love and love, there is God.”

Cas reached over and quickly squeezed Dean's hand. They continued their walk back to Maison d'Ange together.

–– END ––

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * I confess, I have no clue what the process for getting a student visa is, or how it works when you've been waitlisted. Or even how waitlisting works for international students. So... I'm just gonna assume that it'll all work out somehow :-P
>   * The line is super short, and the context is totally changed, so I don't expect anyone to have picked up on this. But Cas's line “I choose” is an homage to my favorite part of my favorite episode, 9x14 Captives. I never got around to writing my epic two-part meta on the theological significance of Castiel's choice, but IMO it's the absolute peak of his character development. The being who once declared “I'm your new god” now so clearly understands the futility of these ego-driven power games that he would sooner give his life than get involved in them again. Aahhh, my feels!
>   * Did anyone notice the significance of another thing Cas said? About how God is doing something new? Yeah, probably not, cause it's from aaaaaages ago. But that's a reference to a scripture reading from the first time Dean went to prayers, in Chapter 12, before he'd even properly met Cas. It's Isaiah 43:18-21, which reads in part: “The Lord says: Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” It seems especially appropriate for Cas at this turning point in his life!
>   * So omg, thank you so much for reading my fic! I can't believe anyone made it all the way to the end, hahaha! Writing this has been such an incredible journey, and I really can't express how much it means to me that you took the time to read it. I don't even know what to say. So, uh, leave a comment? If you want to, I mean. But that would be awesome. And thanks again to everyone who helped me along the way – I really could not have done it without you!
> 



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